


Embark, Framed, and Beyond the Yellow Brick Road

by plumsuede



Series: Embark, Framed, and Beyond the Yellow Brick Road [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Brian and Justin - Freeform, M/M, Post-Series, QAF, Queer as Folk, b/j fic, post-513 fic, qaf fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 435,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumsuede/pseuds/plumsuede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Embark is the beginning of now completed, post-513 trilogy that picks up Brian Kinney's and Justin Taylor's relationship after the end of the series.  (The trilogy is made of this piece, Framed, and Beyond the Yellow Brick Road. )  Chapters here do not correspond to LJ because I have included Embark and Framed as part of this series. Timeline wise it opens immediately after the last scene Brian and Justin are in together at the end of 513. </p><p>This work is complete here on AO3.  Your comments are always appreciated.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Embark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 4/2/06]

**EMBARK  
  
** BRIAN’S POV  
  
_allow if you’re still alive_  
_six to eight years to arrive_  
  
That day in your Jeep five years ago when he mentioned going away to school…that was when you knew what this would be like…what it would be like to kiss him good-bye and watch the tail lights of a taxi cab take him to the airport…not to college on a four year stint, but to New York City and maybe for good. He fought the tears in his eyes when the kiss you were sharing turned into a hug, his palm pressed against your heart.  
  
“I’ll take you, if you want,” you offered, fueled by an overwhelming desire to postpone the inevitable.  
  
He shook his head, “No, I want to remember it like this,” his eyes glancing above your head at the light shining down in the darkness.  
  
“Full circle,” you noted. So much had changed over the years, so much so that the end was indistinguishable from the beginning.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You artists and your fucking symbolism,” you said, the edge in your tone disingenuous, not reflected in the way you were holding him. “You’ll be okay,” you reassured him, knowing that the reassurance wasn’t really for him.  
  
“So will you,” he added, his hand running over your chest as if he was comforting you.  
  
_Goddamn little liar._  
  
**********************  
_christ, you know it ain't easy,_  
_you know how hard it can be_  
  
You don’t remember opening the car door for him or watching the taxi pull away; all you could see was a seventeen-year-old walking toward you under neon lights, shirt—and fear—less. You took the stairs back to the loft, shedding your clothes piece by piece as you got back to your bed.  
  
Lying there, for the first time in five years, you didn’t need anything-- not a cigarette, not a drink, not even a blow job. You were content in that unsettling way, like someone tied to railroad tracks as the train gets louder and louder. So, you closed your eyes and let it hit you.  
  
All of it.  
  
The grief of responsibility.  
  
The adoration you’d spent resurfacing as a debt to be repaid.  
  
At some point in that deafening silence, you heard your cell phone ringing and walked in circles to find the pants you’d tossed away. You expected it to be him, but were actually relieved when it was Lindsey,  
  
“ _I didn’t expect you to answer; I was just going to leave a mess--”_  
  
“He’s gone.”  
  
**********************  
_hurt me now,_  
_get it over_  
  
You lit a cigarette just to comfort yourself, staring out the window, breathing in the smoke and silence between both of you. You didn’t know how to tell her that your mind was already playing tricks on you, that you’d already convinced yourself that if you just stood undressed in the window and smoked, he’d come back. You didn’t know how to tell her that that very thing had happened more times than you could count or that you could actually feel his arms wrapping around you from behind.  
  
It was ridiculously romantic.  
  
……  
  
“I want him to know who he is,” you heard yourself telling her, your thumb perched on the bridge of your nose.  
  
“ _He loves you.”_  
  
You wondered if you should’ve warned him about what was coming next in life instead of fucking him, but you couldn’t figure out how to warn him about the peril of being the simultaneous object of someone’s desire and frustration and their hero all at the same time.  
  
“ _No matter what.”_  
  
……  
  
You wondered if you were already revising your image of him, blurring his faults, embellishing the rest. He’d been gone an hour, and his hair was already blonder, his clothes tighter, the smile on his face always directed at you.  
  
Would he grow into someone you barely recognized? Into someone who would see a raw version of himself in someone else and want to step up and smooth out the edges? Into someone who fell as hard as you did when handed a bounty of devoted innocence?  
  
You hoped so.  
  
And hoped not.  
  
……  
  
That night, when you went back to bed, you knew you were going to spend the next six hours fucking a memory.  
  
**********************  
_this is a love attack,_  
_I know it went out,_  
_but it’s back_  
  
In his absence the next morning, you tried to rationalize how you let this happen to you, how he could have the audacity to leave his bar of soap in the shower…how you could be so fatally indulgent to use it, how it eventually crumbled in your hand--useless, leftover slivers jockeying for the drain. Afterwards, wrapped in his towel, you stood in front of the mirror thinking you were going to shave but could focus only on the reddening outline of your eyes. For several minutes you stayed right there watching what was happening inside you, fighting to keep it there, the emotion inside you nothing less than an unwelcome insurgency.  
  
But the battle was decidedly lost. He was the one with the exit strategy, not you.  
  
He was the one who left your wedding rings on the coffee table, right in front of you, knowing damn well you had no fucking idea what to do with them.  
  
_What am I? Lord of the rings?_  
  
….  
  
One classic James Dean movie later, the rings sat alone on the sofa while you sat alone in a cab.  
  
“Where to, sir?” the cabbie asked as you lit a cigarette and held it politely out the window.  
  
“Downtown. Mercedes dealership.”  
  
“Brand new one. Nice place.”  
  
**********************  
_if I don’t find a honey to help me spend my money,_  
_I’m gonna have to blow this town_  
  
You wandered the lot alone for several minutes before heading for the showroom, conscious of the barrage of safety glass you’d brought raining down the last time you were here. Mercedes had purchased the dealership years ago, remodeled it, and made sure their salesmen looked as good if not better than their product. The one approaching you at that moment was more proud of how smoothly his pants hung than the luxury automobile whose virtues he was preparing to extol:

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
“Beauty, isn’t she?” he asked. You barely smiled, circling the vehicle instead, your hands buried in the pockets of your black overcoat. It hung open, revealing the gray, designer suit you’d donned that morning—casual Saturday be damned. “New, too. Only had it for a week.”  
  
……  
  
“How many have you sold?”  
  
He seemed overly pleased that you’d acknowledged him, mimicking you with his hands in his pockets, “Two.”  
  
“And your colleagues?” you inquired.  
  
He raised his hand, his fingers forming the shape of a zero.  
  
When you opened the door to the silver sedan and sat behind the wheel, you could almost feel the excitement of a possible sale oozing from his pores. He opened the passenger side door and sat beside you.

 

 

  
[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
  
“She’s fully customizable,” he began while you ran your fingers over the leather steering wheel. “Voice activated, comes with twenty different scripts you can use and space for twenty more—"  
  
“She?”  
  
“I’m sorry. _He_ or she, whichever you prefer.” He reached over and put the key in the ignition and the car started with barely a whisper. “Completely keyless, too, if you prefer.”  
  
You nodded.  
  
You knew he was watching you as your eyes perused the interior, and you were content to let him.

 

 

  
[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
  
“We have an identical model to this one, same color and everything, that’s just come in, if you’d like to try it out.”  
  
“I would.”  
  
He tried to contain the enthusiasm in his voice, “Okay, let’s go.”  
  
You followed him outside, and he turned to you, “Sir, if you’ll wait right here, we’ll bring her out.”  
  
You nodded again, removing your cell phone from your interior pocket, and checked your messages. There was one…from Justin. You never heard it ring. The message had been left at three twelve a.m.; you stared at your shoes while you listened:  
  
_"Hey. I went straight to your voice mail because it’s so late. Obviously, I’m here and I basically threw my stuff in Maya’s place, you know, Daphne’s friend I told you about, and then we went out. Oh my god, I’m completely trashed."_ He sneezed before continuing, " _I’m totally allergic to this apartment. Jesus. I think I left my allergy medicine in your coat when we went out the other night. Okay, so anyway, we went to this club and it was insane; you would’ve loved it--exactly your kind of place. Oh my god, I totally think you should buy it. And Brian, listen to me, the men here are so much hotter than Pittsburgh. I mean, whoa. I think I just stood there with my mouth hanging open._  
  
_"Oh my god, I’m going to sneeze ag-- wait, no, false alarm. Oh, oh, and that’s what I wanted to tell you, that was the name of the club—‘False Alarm.’ Don’t you love that? Do you know there’s no limit on your voice mail, and I could just talk for hours and hours if I wanted to? Okay, I’m just kidding; I’m not going to do that._  
  
_"I have to go; I have to pee so bad._  
  
_"Oh my god, I’m such a lesbian; I don’t want to go to bed without you… I miss you. Bye."_  
  
When you closed your phone and looked up, the car and it’s pimp were about six feet in front of you, “Ready, sir?”  
  
**********************  
_and if the offer is shunned,_  
_you might as well be walkin’ on the sun_  
  
The car drove tighter than Justin the first time you fucked him, smoother than the porcelain skin of his ass, the V8 engine exuberant yet responsive, a deferent spirit that felt all too familiar. Your tour guide pointed out a few features and then sat back as you merged onto the interstate, encouraging you to, “See what she can do.”  
  
A sense of relief came over you as you picked up speed, though you found yourself reluctant to trust it. The highway was wide open, and you took advantage of it at almost a hundred miles an hour. City street or stretch of highway, the ride was effortless. He’d given you his business card when you were in the showroom, but you’d tossed it in a plant when he wasn’t paying attention. When you saw a sign indicating a rest area one mile ahead, you turned your head and looked right at your passenger.  
  
You both knew he didn’t believe what he was saying, “Want me to drive for awhile? Give you a chance to check out the special features?”  
  
You raised your eyebrow, shook your head, a smile on your face.  
  
……  
  
There were truckers in the parking lot, but the area reserved for cars was empty, except for an abandoned, rusted burgundy Chevrolet with a flat tire and an elderly woman watering her dog and smoking next to her Cadillac. You pulled into a parking space, killed the engine and unfastened your seat belt. He took his cue from you and freed himself as well.  
  
You reached into your coat pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes to which he began to object, but you cut him off, “I’m buying this car.” You tilted the pack in his direction, offering him one.  
  
“Don’t smoke.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” you replied, cracking your window, smoking it with your left hand as your right unzipped your pants, stroking yourself as you kept your eyes glued to his face. “Don’t suppose you have an aversion to other things in your mouth?”  
  
He gave the parking lot a quick, nervous glance, and then met your gaze again, an _I can’t believe this is happening,_ tentative smile on his face, “Not really.”  
  
“Didn’t think so.”  
  
He loosened his tie as he raised the arm rest between you and leaned down. You rested your hand on his back over his crisp, white, cotton shirt, closing your eyes when you felt his hand on your dick.  
  
“Interesting commission,” he told you, the last words he spoke before you felt the wet warmth of his mouth. He was a better sucker than seller. Your checkbook was lying on his back when he swallowed.  
  
“Who do I make it out to?”  
  
"'Pittsburgh Mercedes.'"  
  
He was staring at the seventy-seven thousand, one hundred and seventy-five dollar check when he said, “On second thought, maybe I will have a cigarette.”  
  
The memo on the check read: _Payment in full._  
  
**********************  
_you don't have to prove to me_  
_you're beautiful to strangers_  
  
Justin called that night, regaling you with the details of his first evening in NYC and telling you what wild adventure he’d planned for that night. He was upbeat, seemed happy. You laughed in all the right places, asked a few questions, offered a little advice, and said nothing of your replacement therapy several floors below.  
  
When you hung up with him, you grabbed your brown leather jacket, and took the stairs all the way down to the garage, where you found the Mercedes right where you’d left it—parked next to the ‘vette, to which you mumbled an apology when you chose the more luxurious of the two.  
  
The interior of the vehicle was beautifully lit and smelled better than aftershave in a locker room.

 

 

 

 

  
  
You wanted to drive it at night to take advantage of the trademark night vision system the sedan was famous for. This time, you drove north, a powerful invincibility overtaking you. You tested the navigation system, and then flew down a dark, deserted road with porn you’d just downloaded playing on the dashboard pc. Hearing those men grunt and moan in stereo through the car’s state-of-the-art sound system convinced you that this gem of an automobile was worth every single penny.  
  
And then some.  
  
Time flew as fast as you did. Finally.

 

 

 

 

  
  
You wouldn’t arrive back at the loft for two hours, amazed that you still had three-fourths of a tank left.  
  
**********************  
_I said to my reflection, ‘let’s get out of this place’_  
  
On Sunday, you abandoned the loft.  
  
Over the years, you’d return there often when you needed a change of scenery, or when you couldn’t get any peace and quiet at work, or when there was someone you wanted to fuck. But that morning, you packed the things you’d need for the next week and emailed some very high-dollar movers with whom you were personally acquainted. All of your personal effects were to be packed and moved before the end of the week. When you got in the car, it greeted you with the male voice you’d downloaded and synced the night before.  
  
And scared the fuck out of you.  
  
You knew exactly when you were leaving Pennsylvania and crossing into West Virginia because he told you a mile before the border. Every time he spoke, you found yourself picturing the man behind the voice. Muscular? Intelligent? Easy?  
  
You deleted him when you entered West Virginia, switching over to the car’s default female voice. You didn’t care who she was, what she looked like, or if she was fuckable. The tenor of her voice was completely unremarkable, mirroring the miles and miles of country road. The rings sat boxed and alone on the passenger seat. When you arrived at the house, you sat in the driveway, unable to compel yourself to bring them inside. Instead, you hid them in one of the car’s plethora of hidden compartments where they’d remain until you could figure out what to do with them.  
  
By late Sunday afternoon, you couldn’t find anything else to occupy your mind which became a problem because you couldn’t relax. You ended up sitting on the floor in what would later be Gus’s room (but was empty at the time) with your laptop on your lap and a bottle of Scotch beside you. Again the restless feeling returned in the quiet of sunlight pouring through the window, streaking the hardwood floor. You emailed Theodore, telling him he needed to replenish the cash account to the tune of almost eighty thousand dollars, and then surfed the ‘net until you were so drunk you couldn’t see the screen. Your last coherent thought before you fell asleep was that Justin was full of shit.  
  
It _isn't_ always better the second day.  
  
**********************  
_come Monday,_  
_it’ll be all right_  
  
On Monday morning, you called Cynthia from the car and told her that you were going to be late. It was an extremely bright Monday morning, so much so that you were squinting behind your sunglasses as you drove to the bank. Once inside, a teller who looked too young to even have a job, let alone be a bank teller, led you to the vault of safety deposit boxes and then left you alone.  
  
You pulled a key ring with two keys out of your pocket and opened the box to which you held the only key, the one with your personal effects. You slid it out and laid it on the table the bank provided. Inside were the things you expected to see: Gus’s birth announcement paper clipped to an early sonogram (the one where you proved to Lindsey that he was a boy), titles to your loft, the house, Kinnetik, the ‘vette, and now the Mercedes, your bracelet, a copy of your will, Lindsey’s and Mel’s, and Michael’s in case anything ever happened to both he and Ben at the same time. That document gave you the comic book store and Justin the exclusive rights to _Rage,_ and it also ensured that you’d take care of Debbie in the event that she wasn’t able to care for herself.  
  
You took the ring box out of your pocket and opened it for what would be the last time for almost six years. After making room in the safety deposit box, you closed the small, burgundy case, sat it inside, and returned the drawer to its slot. As you exited the vault, the teller approached you again, “Mr. Kinney, what else can we do for you today?”  
  
“Nothing, thank you,” you told her as your arm pressed the glass door of the bank open, the bright sun destroying the chill in the air as you found your sunglasses again, “That’ll be all.”  
  
The end.

Go on to _Framed_

Lyrics taken from Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ , The Beatles's _Ballad of John and Yoko_ , Patsy Kline’s _Leavin’ On Your Mind_ , Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ again, Sam Cooke’s _Another Saturday Night_ , Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ one last time, Carly Simon’s _You Belong to Me_ , Squeeze’s _Tempted_ , and Jimmy Buffet’s _Come Monday_. Brian’s car is a [2007 Mercedes S550](https://secure.mbusa.com/models/gallery/index.do?modelCode=s_class_main).


	2. Framed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Framed is a post-513 fic that was complete when written but then used to start the series Beyond the Yellow Brick Road.  
> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/6/05]

**FRAMED**  
  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_it doesn't matter where you've been  
as long as it was deep_  
  
_"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Wednesday, February 9, 2011. The time is five fifty-four p.m. The current temperature is thirty-nine degrees. Possible light rain. Please use caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.”_  
  
“HOME.”  
  
_"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”_  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
_"At this time, there is one new message available. Press or say-"_  
  
“ONE.”  
  
_"Today, five forty-six p.m. Hey, it’s me. I’m here, earlier than I thought. I have the key you gave me, but I can’t get the deadbolt open. Plus, I thought you told me the alarm wouldn’t be on, but something’s flashing in there, and I’m afraid to go in, so, um, I’ll just wait for you. Hurry. It’s cold. I took a cab…..I might go to the neighbor’s if you’re going to be a while.”_  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“SAVE.”  
  
_"Thank you."_  
  
“DIAL JUSTIN. CELL.”  
  
_"Thank you. Dialing.”_  
  
_"Hello?”_  
  
“Hey. I’ll be there in….ARRIVAL TIME."  
  
_"Estimated arrival time thirty-six minutes."_  
  
"……...thirty-six minutes.”  
  
_"What the fuck was that?”_  
  
“The car. It knows the traffic patterns. I don’t.”  
  
_“Oh.”_  
  
“Did you go next door? The alarm isn’t on. It just looks like it is. It’s a cover.”  
  
_“Oh.”_  
  
“The dead bolt sticks. Put the key in and lift up a little.”  
  
_“I got it. Damn, that thing’s stubborn.”_  
  
“I’ll be home soon. Make yourself comf--…..at home.”  
  
_"Thanks.”_  
  
“LOCAL.”  
  
_"As reported yesterday evening, three armed suspects escaped from ………”_  
  
“NATIONAL.”  
  
_"The President will meet with Iranian leaders today to finalize……..”_  
  
Perfect.  
  
***************  
_ever since I met you,  
seems I can't forget you,  
the thought of you keeps runnin' through the back of my mind_  
  
You knew eventually he’d come back, when he made it big, when he could afford to paint anywhere he wanted and dealers and art critics and art lovers near and far would come to _him_ and not the other way around, so you kept the country manor, and the loft, and the club so you’d have your home, your fuck pad, and your playground. Everything you’d need to keep you busy until he got back.  
  
He was right. You’re Brian Kinney. You need a change of scenery now and then. Keeps you young.  
  
But you also need him. And he knew that, too. So he did what he had to do and came home.  
  
But this time, you were going to make sure that he didn’t leave again. Because you’re Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake—whatever that means—and, goddamnit, you’re going to get what you want.  
  
You’ve spent years in this house now, you know every nook and cranny, but he doesn’t. He never saw the whole place, never saw the things you did for him all those years ago. You made a point not to show him then. It just would’ve made it harder for him to go.  
  
Now you want to make it easy for him to stay.  
  
Or impossible to get away. Call it what you want.  
  
The first night he’s back, you fuck. Almost everywhere.  
  
In front of the fire. He’s on his knees, facing the flames. His hair, his face, burning up in the afterglow.  
  
In bed, on his back, like the first time, and what you feared might be the last, and so many others. You see them all in your head.  
  
He sucks you off in the shower. You’re both trying to cool off.  
  
It doesn’t work.  
  
You rim him in the sauna. He didn’t know the house had a sauna. The sweat on his body tastes so good, you jerk off while you’re eating him out, everything about him, the way he smells, the way he tastes, magnified in the moist, heated room.  
  
It feels so good to be in his ass again, where he wants you, where you belong. And you could give a fucking shit if that makes you a lovesick letch. He’s yours. He’s home.  
  
Hallelujah.  
  
***************  
_I guess you're just what I needed_  
  
_"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, February 10, 2011. The time is five-o-four p.m. The current temperature is forty-one degrees. Heavy rain. Please use extreme caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.”_  
  
“HOME.”  
  
_"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”_  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
_"At this time, there are no new messages."_  
  
“OLD MESSAGES. PLAY.”  
  
_"Yesterday, five forty-six p.m. Hey, it’s me. I’m here, earlier than I thought. I have the key you gave me, but I can’t get the deadbolt open. Plus, I thought you told me the alarm wouldn’t be on, but something’s flashing in there, and I’m afraid to go in, so, um, I’ll just wait for you. Hurry. It’s cold. I took a cab…..I might go to the neighbor’s if you’re going to be a while.”_  
  
“SAVE.”  
  
_"Thank you.”_  
  
“LOCAL.”  
  
_"Due to extreme precipitation in our area, flash flood warnings have been issued for all surrounding areas--_ ”  
  
“NATIONAL. MUTE. TRAFFIC.”  
  
_"Current destination delayed by fifty-four minutes due to weather and road conditions.”_  
  
“Fuck.”  
***************  
_every time I'm near you,  
I get that urge to feel you  
just touching you and loving you makes everything right_  
  
The second night is so cold and pouring rain, that it takes you an extra hour to get home. You care because he’s there, waiting for you. You call him as you inch forward in traffic from the comfort of your silver Mercedes S-class electric hybrid with heated seats, lumbar support, global navigation, _CNN_ on mute in the dashboard, and your cigarette laying comfortably between your fingers. His voice fills the car as he tells you what he’s done all day, what’s for dinner—some meat thing, some random vegetables, some casserole thing he’s trying for the first time so, “Please try it before you complain about it and yes, your drink will be ready when you walk in the door.”  
  
“ _Sounds_ good.”  
  
_“Did you just come?”_  
  
Shit?  
  
“No.”  
  
_“Liar.”_  
  
You reach for a _disposable_ come towel. You’ve evolved. _Arrived._ The next step will be to have a hand that comes up out of the seat and just does this for you, perhaps ‘Thing’ from _The Addams Family_. Like he didn’t do that for Gomez or Morticia. Probably Morticia. Gomez was a fucking nut job. And besides, so what if you masturbated while he was talking about cream of mushroom soup? They’re sort of similar.  
  
Right?  
  
_“Brian?”_  
  
“Huh?” He sighs and then scolds you.  
  
_“I’d prefer if you didn’t do that while you’re driving.”_  
  
“I wasn’t.” He ignores that.  
  
_“You could get hurt. I don’t want you to have an accident.”_  
  
“I’m not even moving. I’m going like two miles an hour.”  
  
_“So you were.”_  
  
Silence.  
  
He’s right. You shouldn’t. If you died like this, it would humiliate him. You glance at your muted in-console television. You can see it now: _“Justin Taylor, New York’s best kept, non-secret, sublimely handsome artist, whose most recent show just finished last week in SoHo, tragically buried his obscenely wealthy, and even more handsome partner, Brian Kinney, last Thursday. Kinney was apparently pleasuring himself to the ingredients of an original Taylor casserole when his barely broken-in, recently upgraded, limited-edition Mercedes drove off the highway and flipped over a guard rail. The two had just reunited again after a six year hiatus. Taylor, unfortunately, is no stranger to tragedy having been……”_  
  
_“Are you going to answer me?”_ You want to tell him that that tone of voice he’s using is unacceptable. But actually, it’s making you hard. You haven’t been scolded in that, _Brian, how could you?_ way in so long. Now you’re horny and nostalgic.  
  
It’s so fucking fabulous to be in a non-relationship again.  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
_“Thanks,”_ his voice has softened, _“I’ll see you when you get home.”_ He hangs up.  
  
Thirteen minutes later, you come again listening to the Dow Industrials, but thinking about whether or not he still has on the same really thin, clingy pants he had on this morning when you left for work, when he wasn’t wearing any underwear….  
  
Fuck it. Maybe there’s a grace period.  
  
***************  
_his heart's beating like a drum  
'cause at last he's got his girl home  
relax, baby, now we're all alone_  
  
He greets you at the door when you get home, and you pull him close, the icy raindrops from your raincoat soaking through his long sleeve gray t-shirt. He shivers as you kiss him. He tastes like wine. Red, his lips are stained.  
  
After you eat the amazing dinner he’s cooked, you help him wash the dishes, your arms wrapped around him from behind, and he tells you to be careful, that you’re going to make him break something. He looks like a four-armed dish washer in the reflection in the window and you both laugh. You press your erection into his ass. He tells you that you can’t fuck him until everything’s cleaned up.  
  
“That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got a surprise for you.” He gives you a curious grin, tilting his head back.  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
He washes faster.  
  
Once you’ve extinguished the lights downstairs, your eyes covet his ass as he leads the way to the second floor like he’s lived here forever. A puddle’s formed in the foyer underneath your raincoat, but you both ignore it. He walks into your bedroom and turns on the fireplace. You watch him, smiling. He stands in front of you, loosening your tie, the flames the only light in the large room.  
  
“We need to relocate,” you tell him as you take his hand and lead him down the hall to a closed door. There are so many doors in this house, so many opportunities. His expression is curious as he watches you remove a key from your pocket. It’s so quiet that you hear it slide inside the doorknob. The knob turns and the door pops open. The look on his face is priceless.  
  
“Oh my god.” The room looks exactly how it looked six years ago. It hasn’t been touched. “When did you do this?”  
  
“After you said ‘yes’ and before you left for New York.” His mouth won’t close.  
  
“But--?”  
  
“I never told you.”  
  
“Or showed me.” Your hand presses into the small of his back, urging him inside his studio.  
  
“Timing wasn’t right.” He steps inside the room as if it’s fragile. Your black Prada loafers _thunk_ on the linoleum.  
  
“It’s incredible. It’s everything….everything I want….everything I use.” You know. You paid attention. Even looked at everything he was using in that hovel before he left. His creative energy was soaring there. It made you hard. He stands by one of the easels. “You know I’m going to be really messy in here, right? There’s going to be paint everywhere.” His arms spread wide to illustrate his point. You laugh.  
  
“Everything’s washable. Even the walls.” You touch them. So does he.  
  
“And I don’t want a cleaning lady in here. I want it to be messy. _My mess._ ”  
  
You roll your eyes, “That’s fine.” You’ve seen it this way for six years. You’re more than ready for this.  
  
“I might even get paint on the windows, Brian,” he says as he looks out on the backyard. He hasn’t smiled like this since you told him he could have his magic Chinese wedding flowers way back when. He’s so fucking happy. He looks back at your face and you raise your eyebrows. No objection from you. “So this is really _mine._ ” He looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin.  
  
You walk over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, breathing into his ear, “You just have to accept the terms of our agreement.”  
  
“I knew there was a catch.”  
  
“There are several.”  
  
Your hand moves down over his chest to the front of his pants. His rubs down your arm, covering your hand and pressing it against him, moaning quietly as you kiss his neck, the side of his face. His eyes close. The recessed lights in the vaulted ceiling are dim enough not to compete with the moonlight streaming in through the windows.  
  
You unzip his pants as he whispers, “What are they?” and your fingers slips inside his fly, inside his underwear, causing him to hold his breath for a second when your skin touches his. He gets weaker in your arms, holds onto you tighter. Your fingertips gloss over his dick and he leans his head back, nuzzling your neck. You feel his body stiffen in anticipation.  
  
When your hand disappears and returns with his, guiding his fingers to mimic yours, you feel the disappointment in his body. It arouses you; you know you cause it, but you'll also take it away. You concern yourself with relieving him of his pants and underwear, turning him around to face you as he steps out of them.  
  
“You and I are going to have a conversation,” you say motioning to the table behind him, the 'horizontal easel' you bought him so many years ago. He likes to paint on huge, flat surfaces, and there are added features to this art table that he doesn’t even know about yet. It’s a lot bigger than it looks.  
  
You surprise him by picking him up and sitting him on the edge and then pull his gray t-shirt over his head. Standing between his legs, it’s time to kiss him, to get this moving.  
  
He makes such a beautiful subject.  
  
“Lie down.”  
  
You nudge him on the chest and he lies back, giving you a wary look. “Bend your knees.” You plant his feet on the end of the table, apart, and stop for a moment just to admire his fucking beautiful body, trailing your hand up and down his inner thigh.  
  
You’ve got him exactly where you want him.  
  
He examines the ceiling, notices the additional track lighting that’s not on right now, that he didn’t even notice before. “The lighting in here is incredible, Brian.”  
  
“The better to illuminate you with, my dear.” He laughs, aroused nervousness. You wait where you are for him to look at you again. His head finally stops perusing the room.  
  
“Are you going to give me a pelvic exam or something?” Nervous humor with a smile.  
  
“You should be so lucky.”  
  
The heat kicks on. He changes the subject.  
  
“I can’t wait to use this room.”  
  
“We’re using it now.”  
  
He jumps a little when you reach under the table and pull the horizontal metal bar underneath it out and up. It clicks into place, a loud, hollow sound in the studio.  
  
“Is that for--?”  
  
“Paper.”  
  
The drawer underneath the table opens smoothly. Hand-crafted. You remove the four soft, black, leather cuffs inside it and lay them on his stomach. He toys with one of them and gives you a coy smile.  
  
“It’s not for paper right now, is it?”  
  
You take the cuff he’s playing with away from him.  
  
“No.”  
  
He moans a little when you fasten it around his ankle because you’re also lightly kissing the inside of his leg. He stops fiddling with the remaining cuffs and moves his right hand to his cock, his left over his head, wrapping it around the edge of the table. His back rises off the table just a little. You raise your eyebrows at him and cuff the other ankle, threading the descending rings from both of them through the bar and then clicking it back into place. He realizes within a few seconds that he can move his legs back and forth all he wants, but he can’t straighten them. You touch his knees, and they fall wide open for you. You smile and lean down and kiss his fingers wrapped so desperately around his cock as you raise his knees again, a mild warning leaving your lips,  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
He exhales in frustration and watches you like a hawk as you walk to the other end of the table, standing over his head. His eyes plead with you as you stroke the side of his face, your hand firmly grasping his left wrist. You pretend not to notice that he’s stroking faster. He knows his time is running out; he doesn’t need you to remind him. The third cuff comes off his stomach with no mention of his frenetic activity. It’s fastened and you take your time raising the bar, sliding it out, getting it ready. His cuffed hand rubs your stomach through your dress shirt, an attempt to soften your resolve, his breathing getting heavier. You lift the last cuff off of his stomach with one hand and clasp his working wrist with your other.  
  
“No, _please_ , let me finish," he whispers as the last cuff is fastened and his arm is unceremoniously lifted over his head. The rings thread easily through the bar once again and it clicks securely into place. He stares up and back at you, not quite at your face, more at your black-patterned necktie. You stroke his hair. His cock leaks on his stomach, abandoned. When you begin to stroke the side of his face, he leans into your hand, "Brian."  
  
“You’re beautiful, Justin.” He closes his eyes. Your fingers comb through his hair as his face warms your palm. “I want you to have everything you want.” He smiles into your palm. “And to the extent that anything you want is something that I can give you, you’ll have it.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you.  
  
“You mean like I want world peace, but that’s not your forte?”  
  
“Exactly, but I’ll do what I can. Finance some freedom fighters or whatever.” He laughs a little.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You’re both quiet for several seconds.  
  
“But I want some things, too.” His eyes open wider.  
  
“You do?” You walk away and pick up a wooden stool and bring it back to the side of the table where you sit, where he looks at you.  
  
“I want you to stay.”  
  
“Is that why you cuffed me to my very own art table?”  
  
“It’s an anvil of a metaphor, but it gets my point across.” He nods, studies your face.  
  
“I came home because I’m ready……because I love you, Brian.”  
  
Home.  
  
“I know you did. I just want you to know—." Your voice fades away and you look out the window.  
  
“What? You want me to know what?” Your words, your plan, are failing you.  
  
“Do you mind if I smoke in your studio?”  
  
He laughs a little again, “No, go right ahead.”  
  
It’ll be the first cigarette ever lit in this room, you think to yourself, as you light up. Just lighting it calms you. You cross your legs, the back of your hand laying over your knee, the cigarette now pointing toward the immaculate floor. You’ve gone this far, just keep going.  
  
“I want you to know that I need you in my life, that I want you here. Having you here makes me feel alive again.” He stares at you. You smoke and gaze in his general direction.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
He’s chained to the table, yet you feel trapped.  
  
He’s twenty-seven, you’re thirty-nine. You’ll die first anyway, of all of your hopeless addictions, hell, maybe even cancer. Who knows? Then he can go find someone more….like him. You know, when he’s like fifty-five or some shit. Knowing him, he’ll just be _starting_ to look thirty by then.  
  
You feel like you’re alive again, yet you’re obsessed with dying.  
  
You backtrack, “I think I’m just being selfish, Justin.”  
  
“That’s ludicrous. You’re the most unselfish person I know.” He tries to motion to his studio as an example, but it’s kind of difficult at the moment.  
  
“Yeah, well, I am now.”  
  
He sighs, “I see.”  
  
“I asked you to marry me before because I wanted to make you happy, and even though we didn’t go through with it that was okay because you were happy." You stop and look right at him, “I can’t function when you’re not happy.” He scoots closer to you, to the edge of the table, the metal rings clinking on the bars as he moves. You move your stool to be closer to him, offering him the last drag off your cigarette before you kill it and then laying your right hand on his chest.  
  
“That doesn’t make you selfish.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that was then.” His brow furrows. “And this is now. Now, I want things. I’ve never wanted things before.”  
  
His eyebrows heighten, “What do you want, Brian?” He looks almost concerned, like you have a disease. You agree with him, your chin resting on your hand on his chest.  
  
“I want you to smile all the time. I want to come home from work to some fabulous dinner you’ve made, but that we don’t eat because it’s been fifteen and a half hours since I’ve fucked you and you can’t wait any longer so I fuck you on the stairs. Then I want you to show up unannounced at my office the next day and demand that I take you to lunch because we skipped dinner last night, but instead we go to the loft and fuck…”  
  
“I see a theme here.”  
  
“It’s a very thematic fantasy.”  
  
“I can tell.”  
  
“I want to watch a John Wayne movie marathon with you while you bitch and moan the whole time because you hate westerns, but you sit there with me anyway and suck me off at least once an hour.”  
  
“Can I have popcorn with obscene amounts of butter?”  
  
“Yes, as long as you wipe your hands before you blow me.”  
  
“Cool.”  
  
“I want to fuck you while you cook, while you paint, while you use your electric toothbrush. I want to fight with you, break shit, and have to spend a thousand dollars replacing crap just so you’ll calm down. I want to argue with you over how to decorate the five empty rooms in this place that I’ve never touched and then just give in and let you do what you want.”  
  
“You’re asking a lot.”  
  
“I know. And during all of this, I want you to be deliriously happy, completely fulfilled, and insatiably horny.”  
  
“That’s all?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“Hmm.” His legs have fallen toward you and you realize that you’re caressing his hip, well, his ass, really. “I think I’m fine with all of that.”  
  
You feel relieved.  
  
And then selfish, all over again.  
  
“You are? If you want to get officially married or whatever, we can do that. It’s fine with me.”  
  
“I think we just did, Brian.”  
  
He raises his head a little and you kiss him. It starts out as nothing, but then it turns into something, your left hand supporting his head. It’s soft and sweet and so fucking good.  
  
"Mmm, that was the best kiss I’ve ever had,” he tells you when it’s over.  
  
“I love you, Justin.”  
  
He grins, almost satisfied, “Yeah, you do.”  
  
***************  
_outside it's cold, misty and it's raining  
they got each other, neither one's complaining_  
  
You stand up, pushing the stool away, and his knees point to the ceiling, your movements so quick, they startle him. You nudge him back to the center of the table. You resume your earlier position at his feet, opening another drawer, noticing the goose bumps forming quickly on his legs. His feet slide together out of instinct. You find it endearing.  
  
“The most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen is you when you come for me,” you tell him, your hand slowly massaging behind his closed calves. “So I think we should christen this studio with that.” Your hand moves up his calves, behind his knees, and down the back of his thighs, where it stops. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
He’s already way past agreeing.  
  
You continue lightly rubbing his thighs, right above his ass. Time to hammer out the finer points of your agreement.  
  
“Now, if you renege on one of my requests, say, refuse to blow me during a John Wayne movie marathon,” your hand moves down to his ass and he exhales, “then I’ll start taking your paints away.”  
  
He presses his ass into your hand. “My paints away?”  
  
“Yes, for instance, for that offense, you’ll lose the color red.” He licks his lips.  
  
“ _Oh_ , what if I don’t fuck you on the stairs? If I actually want to eat the fabulous dinner I slaved over all day long?”  
  
“Green.”  
  
He laughs at you, “That’s stupid. If I still have blue and yellow, I can _make_ green.”  
  
Fucking artists.  
  
“Fine, then no more yellow.”  
  
He repeats, “No more yel- _low_ ,” letting the end of the word slide off of his tongue like he’s high. Your hand slides between his legs and they open for you, just like always. “Well, I think that’s appropriate because I’ll be really sad then, and all I’ll have left will be cool, sad colors.” He watches the lube come out of a mysterious drawer.  
  
“If you don’t come to my office, make a scene, and demand that I take you to lunch because I fucked you for dinner the night before,” your slick finger parts his ass and presses outside his asshole, “I’ll take away your brushes, one by one.” He moans your name when he thinks you’re going to finger him, but you don’t.  
  
You wait.  
  
He stares at his arms over his head like they’ll give him what he wants.  
  
“Fine, I’ll finger paint.”  
  
His ass is so tight around your fingers. He arches, moving on the table in a vain effort to fuck them. You stretch him a little, spreading your fingers inside him, and he responds like a five-year-old who’s just been given a brand new pony, “Yes, god, yes.” You start talking again, his ass squeezing your hand in frustration.  
  
“I want lots of fucking and lots of drama. You’re in charge of the drama.” He pulls himself up on the table a little by holding onto the bar over his head and then pushes back down on your hand. You admire his ingenuity.  
  
“ _Fine_ Brian, you can have all the drama you want.”  
  
“All great drama leads to great fucking, Justin.” He immediately looks at you.  
  
“Like now? I would like that now.”  
  
You smack him on the ass.  
  
When he hears you unzip your pants, he breathes a short-lived sigh of relief. You’re inside him so fast, it makes your head spin, that thick, wet, fast sensation of pushing inside him that you’re fucking addicted to, pulling him by his bent thighs beyond the edge of the table, his feet now resting on the bar itself. The fuck is so hard, so what he deserves, so what he wants, that you don’t even realize that he’s sliding the bar over his head out of its holder until it crashes on the floor—right as you’re coming.  
  
He’s escaped.  
  
“Fucking Christ, Justin.” You’ve never been frightened during an orgasm before. That was kind of….exhilarating. His hands are free and wound in your hair as you pant out your ecstatic fear on his stomach. “Goddamn.”  
  
“I wanna go to bed.”  
  
Your heart won’t stop racing. He’s thrown his wrist cuffs on the floor. You free his feet, zip your pants halfway, and carry him three doors down to the bedroom. Lightning crackles as you walk through the doorway.  
  
“That’s probably not a very good sign,” he says, laughing in your ear, as you lay him on the bed. The storm’s getting worse outside.  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
He watches you as you undress with purpose, laying your clothes on the end of the bed. The room's warm from the fire, and he meets your kiss hard when you lie on top of him. You feel a sense of foreboding about this fuck that’s about to happen, a sense that it’ll destroy you—shred you, like a very top-secret, confidential document.  
  
You can’t wait.  
  
Your entire body prickles all over at the thought of getting back inside him, and when you do, seconds later, it’s almost refreshing, like ice cold water on the hottest day of summer. You feel it all the way down to your toes.  
  
You’re holding him so tightly that he probably can’t breathe, but he can come, and he does on the third thrust, and you feel it seeping between you, sealing you together. It incites you.  
  
Sets you off.  
  
You’re going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of him.  
  
The next kiss is even harder, and he grabs your face, trying to keep you still for a minute, until his wave is over, his fingers digging into the back of your head. He needed to come so badly.  
  
You’re going to take him there again, a little faster this time.  
  
He groans almost in agony when you start fucking him a little harder than he expected and it’s the most beautiful fucking sound you’ve ever heard, his body battling with urges to shut down and get back in the game at the same time.  
  
“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, Justin,” you breathe into his ear. His fingernails slide out of your hair and dig into your shoulders, your upper back.  
  
“God, Brian.”  
  
“Fuck you so hard. Get ‘em up,” you push his legs, folding him in half, giving you the access you want—a nice, clean fuck. You’re so deep inside him………"Jesus fucking Christ.” His whole body spasms for a second, a nice, tight clench on your dick. He’s getting hard again. “God.”  
  
He kisses you, tells you he loves you, clinging around your neck.  
  
You wrap your arms underneath him for leverage, tuck your head in his neck, and push inside his hot little ass so hard and so fast, “Is this how you want to be fucked, Justin?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“From this day forward?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“To have to hold?”  
  
“For better or worse.”  
  
“For richer or poorer?”  
  
“Yes. Fuck me, Brian.”  
  
“In sickness and in health.”  
  
“Yes. Always.”  
  
“On the top or on the bottom?”  
  
“Even chained to my own easel.”  
  
“Orally or anally?”  
  
“Yes, Brian. Upstairs or downstairs, front yard or back yard, here, at the loft, at your office, on Mars, underground, at the bottom of the ocean, to love and to cherish, for as long as we both shall—"  
  
“Come?”  
  
“Choose to find the arrangement mutually beneficial and personally satisfying.” He’s such a smartass. “For the rest of our lives, Brian, but only if you _fuck me like you promised!_ ”  
  
A clap of thunder.  
  
"I think I married a slut."  
  
“Brian Kinney, don’t say that to me on my wedding night.” You kiss him, an apology of sorts. “Takes one to marry one.”  
  
"Think of my status in the community if I go through with this."  
  
“Think of your status in this bed if you don't."  
  
“I feel at least partially responsible for making you into the whore that you are.”  
  
“Oh, you are. Because of you, I’m a connoisseur of cock.”  
  
“That’s so true. And you have the hungriest ass I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Again, your fault.”  
  
“I’m a whore-making machine.”  
  
“It’s your legacy.”  
  
“Of all the whores I’ve made, Justin, you’re my favorite. You came out the best.”  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
“The Bride of Kinney. It has a nice ring to it.”  
  
“Speaking of rings……”  
  
“A pretty new ring for your cock, that’s no problem. Now shut up, so I can finish off your ass.”  
  
"Don't tell me to shut up on my wed-"  
  
***************  
_oh my darling, oh my baby  
you got the moves that drive me crazy_  
  
And although you know that you’ll never be finished with his ass, you finish for the moment, the sound he makes when he comes during those hard, final thrusts propelling your orgasm out of you and into him. You want to give it to him, want him to have it, to keep it for you. It’s not safe with you right now. If he gives it back, you’ll use it again for evil.  
  
You want him so bad.  
  
You hold him in your arms afterwards, kissing him, loving the fact that you’re both so sweaty and sticky in this hot room that you feel like one person, like you’re still fucking. His hands are all over you, touching your chest while he kisses your neck, your jaw. He should be sleepy, but he’s not.  
  
Wedding night jitters?  
  
“Mmm, I want you to fuck me again.”  
  
“There’s a big surprise.”  
  
“I’m just trying to be the slut you always wanted.”  
  
“Oh, you are. Believe me, you are.” He looks at you like that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. “However, I’m almost forty, so you’re going to have to be a patient slut.”  
  
“I can be patient.”  
  
That is such bullshit.  
  
His fingers trace the outline of your biceps. You work out like a fiend. It shows.  
  
“I’m your wife now and I’m twenty-seven, which means I’m close to hitting my sexual peak again.” And you _paid_ for his education.  
  
“Being my wife doesn’t suddenly make you a woman.”  
  
“I’m just pretending.”  
  
“Well, don’t pretend to have your period or I’ll pretend to live at the loft one week out of every month.”  
  
“Oh my god, I can’t wait to see the loft again. Are you ready yet?” He thinks you're _Captain Refract-o._  
  
And proves your point.  
  
“Did you know that your ass tastes like candied walnuts?” He looks at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind. Perfect. You’ve distracted him.  
  
“It does not.”  
  
“It most certainly does. It always has. Roll over, and I’ll prove it to you.” He does. He’s always rolled over quicker than second place at a dog show. When your tongue dips between his cheeks, he buries his head under his pillow.  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“So sweet.” His legs spread as you move to kiss between them and then work your way back to his perfect, pink hole. “This, Sunshine, is what marriage is all about.” Your tongue coats him, enjoying the tight skin prefacing the warm, moist interior of his bottom. When your tongue's finally inside, he moans your name into his pillow.  
  
“Brian, god. Oh my fucking god.”  
  
“Are you peaking yet?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
You knew it.  
  
Right on schedule.  
  
He pushes up on his knees when he feels you move, knowing you’re going to fuck him, gets his ass ready for you. The second you start to penetrate him, he finishes it for you, pushing back on your cock and taking you all at once. Nice. You press on his lower back as he starts fucking himself on your cock and you watch him, watch his perfect, greedy, little ass swallow you whole.  
  
Holy matrimony.  
  
If you'd known marriage was so ridiculously raunchy, well...  
  
His hips roll into your cock, his back arching, his head buried in his hands in the sheets.  
  
“C’mon Justin,” you slap him on the ass. He speeds up, grunting into his hands. You’re getting close, but not close enough. He’s trying to hold off his own orgasm.  
  
Tough shit.  
  
You meet him hard when comes back, holding his hips, angling at his prostate, and he tries to pull away. You thrust into him a few times, take him right to the edge, and let him go, with a warning, “Let’s go.” He pants, catches his breath.  
  
He’ll ride your cock all night long like this if you let him. He loves it a little too much.  
  
Now he moves with purpose as he takes you and you keep your hands lightly on his hips, ready for him the minute he’s about to come because he’ll do what he always does……take himself right to the edge and teeter. But you don’t let him. You wait for that thrust, the one you know's doing him in and take it from him, before he realizes it’s even gone, before he realizes,  
  
“Brian, no,” that he’s coming all over the sheets.  
  
And while he’s coming, you press him down as hard as you can and pound him into the mess he’s making. And you come inside him while he’s still begging you to stop. And you pull out fast and roll him over and fall on top of him, kissing him, telling him he does taste like candied walnuts, sweet and salty, and he kisses you back and says that maybe you’re right, but he doesn’t know because he can’t think right now, and come to think of it, he doesn’t think he’s ever even had a candied walnut.  
  
You tell him that’s ridiculous. Of course, he has.  
  
“Shh. I don’t wanna talk about nuts.”  
  
“Because you are one.”  
  
“I’m sleepy.”  
  
Your sleepy slut nut.  
  
***************  
_my baby takes the morning train_  
  
_6:38 a.m. Friday morning_  
  
You stand in the kitchen drinking your coffee and skimming the newspaper while he bustles around doing god knows what, but you don’t really care as long as you can just watch him over the rim of your coffee cup in those absolutely delicious, light gray, cotton, thin, clingy pant things he’s wearing again with nothing on underneath them. He sticks his head in the refrigerator and you adjust yourself.  
  
Fucking wedded bliss.  
  
He resurfaces with orange juice and a wall-to-wall smile on his face, “Brian! Look! There are deer in the backyard!”  
  
“I’m aware.”  
  
He leans over the kitchen sink and stares at them, babbling about how amazing it is, “ohmygodhecan’tbelieveit, blah blah blah.” You move in behind him and stick your hand down his pants, a possessive fondling of his ass, quickly assessing your fuck-to-time ratio. You can do it. He leans forward to get a better look, and,  
  
“Guess what we’re having for breakfast, Sunshine?”  
  
“Cock-a-doodle-doos?”  
  
“You could say that.”  
  
“You have no appreciation for nature-in your own backyard.”  
  
“I like my nature in the kitchen.”  
  
This feels pretty fucking natural to you. You lower his brilliant wardrobe selection and his feet come off the floor, his toes resting lightly on your shoes. Your hands hold firm underneath his bottom, your thumbs pressing into his tight flesh as you keep him spread and still. He braces himself against the sink, hard, when you come, his fingers slipping on the wet surface and accidentally turning on the water for a second. Your hand moves underneath his damp shirt and you pull him back against you and kiss him.  
  
“Hurry, I don’t want you to be late.”  
  
So you do, pulling up his clingy pants when you’re done and letting him straighten you back up. He walks you to the front door, ready to tell you good-bye, and you pull him up, almost off his feet again, and kiss him.  
  
He confesses in your arms, “I missed this so much when we weren’t together.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The _successful_ fuck in the morning. I love when you smell so good, like you’re going to conquer the world, but you conquer me instead.”  
  
“Not _instead_ , just _first_. Gets me going.” You put on your overcoat. “Nice way to start the day.”  
  
“I’ll see you tonight. I can’t wait.” Your reply is another kiss that neither one of you wants to end. He pushes you out the door. “Be careful.”  
  
***************  
_if you really need me just reach out and touch me  
come on, honey, tell me so_  
  
_Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 11, 2011. The time is seven eleven a.m. The current temperature is thirty-six degrees. Due to overnight precipitation, the roads will be slippery this morning. Please use caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now._  
  
“KINNETIK.”  
  
_Thank you. Kinnetik is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip._  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
" _At this time, there is one new message available. Press--_ "  
  
“ONE.”  
  
_”Today, six fifty-seven a.m. Brian, it’s Cynthia. Your nine o’clock got pushed to nine thirty after you left last night. Otherwise, you’re schedule’s the same. Staff meeting at ten thirty then, I guess, instead of ten. See you when you get in."_  
  
“DELETE.”  
  
_"Thank you. Incoming call….Home."_  
  
“ANSWER.”  
  
_"It’s me.”_  
  
“I know.”  
  
_"I’m still horny.”_  
  
“Don’t move; I’ll turn the car around.”  
  
_"It’s all right. I’ll be okay.”_  
  
“Are you sure? It sounds serious.”  
  
_"Yeah, but….”_  
  
“But what? What’s wrong?”  
  
_"I’m not wearing those pants you like anymore.”_  
  
“Why not? I like those pants.”  
  
_"No, I mean I’m not wearing them anymore right now. I took them off. They’re on the floor._”  
  
“Oh……..I misunderstood. Where are _you_?”  
  
“ _On your side of the bed. Smells like you.”_  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
_"Is there bad traffic right now?”_  
  
“Not at all. Smooth sailing. Think I’m the only guy going to work today.”  
  
_"I like being married.”_  
  
“You do?”  
  
_"Feels really good.”_  
  
“You sound like you feel really good.”  
  
_"I went in the studio and looked in the drawer…….from last night.”_  
  
“You did, huh?”  
  
_"Found something I think is for me.”_  
  
“It’s for you.”  
  
_"I love it.”_  
  
“Is it inside you, Justin?”  
  
_"It might be.”_  
  
“All of it?”  
  
_"Almost.”_  
  
“Get on your knees for me, Justin. All the way in.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
_"Brian….uh, yes.”_  
  
“Talk to me.”  
  
_"I’m there. Almost. Oh, fuck._.”  
  
“Just like last night, Justin, use the bed instead of me.”  
  
_"I am. I am.”_  
  
“Are you hard?”  
  
_"Just about.”_  
  
“I want you hard.”  
  
_"I want you to come home.”_  
  
“I want you to come.”  
  
_"Brian, please.”_  
  
“I want you to come for me, Justin.”  
  
_"I want you so bad. I want you to come home and fuck me like this. Please.”_  
  
“I’m gonna wear your ass  out when I get home tonight, Justin. C’mon. Come for me.”  
  
_"Oh shit. Fuck, Brian, fuck. Oh god, it’s everywhere. All over. Jesus………….oh my fucking god……oh god….uh.”_  
  
……  
……  
  
“Justin, you okay?”  
  
_"Did I just fuck myself with my brand new, twelve inch, acrylic dildo on our telephonic honeymoon?”_  
  
“Well, technically, yes, I guess you did.”  
  
_"Jesus, I am so fucking embarrassed.”_  
  
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. You just gave new meaning to ‘rush hour’ and made my morning.”  
  
_"I’m afterglowing all over the place right now. I just want you to know that—all by myself.”_  
  
“I’ll honeymoon you properly tonight. I promise.”  
  
_"I might still be lying right here when you get home.”_  
  
“Not a problem.”  
  
_"I love you, Brian Kinney.”_  
  
“I love you, too, you little slut nut.”  
  
“ARCHIVE.”  
  
_"This conversation has been archived.”_  
  
“ACCESS ARCHIVE. TODAY.”  
  
_"Today’s archive: One conversation archived. Hom-"_  
  
“PLAY.”  
  
_"Thank you.”_  
  
_"It’s me._ I know. _I’m still horny._ Don’t move; I’ll turn the car around. _It’s all right. I’ll be okay._ Are you sure? It sounds serious. _Yeah, but…._ But what? What’s wrong? _I’m not wearing those pants you like anymore._ Why not? I like those pants. _No, I mean I’m not wearing them anymore right now. I took them off. They’re on the floor._ Oh……..I misunderstood. Where are _you_? _On your side of the bed. Smells like you._ Hmm. _Is there bad traffic right now?_ Not at all…….”  
  
………..  
  
………..  
  
_"Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Weather reports indicate a sixty percent chance of precipitation today. Have a productive day."_  
  
This is why you love this car.  
  
***************  
_so I'd like to know where you got the notion_  
  
He shows up unannounced outside your perfectly polished, perfectly clean, streak-free conference room doors at Kinnetik at eleven ten a.m. in his thigh length black leather jacket with a bag of candied walnuts in his hand, dangling the keys to the ‘vette in the other and a beautiful smile on his face. The bizarre expression on yours makes everyone in your full staff meeting turn around to see what you’re looking at. He waves.  
  
And then walks right in.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Justin?” Ted.  
  
“Hi, Justin.” Cynthia.  
  
“Brian, may I speak to you for a minute?” Justin.  
  
He shakes the bag of nuts. You realize then that it’s open. A few of them fall on the floor.  
  
Ted remarks, “Oh, I love those things. May I have a couple?” He shakes his head, still smiling, but looking at you.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’d love to share, but I bought these for Brian, for our hone—"  
  
“Please excuse us for a minute.” You motion for him to lead the way into your office. The minute you round the corner, he kisses you. He tastes like those fucking walnuts.  
  
“Hi,” he smiles, “I’m hungry. Take me to lunch.” You look down and realize he’s wearing those gray, thin, clingy pants and sneakers. He looks like he’s in his pajamas.  
  
“My meeting will be done at noon.”  
  
“No, now.” He puts a walnut in your mouth. It’s delicious. He bought the really expensive ones.  
  
You look at the watch you forgot to wear this morning, “Can’t you give me forty-five minutes?” A glance into the conference room confirms that everyone is looking in your direction. You push him over a few feet. He mistakes it for affection and puts his arms around you.  
  
“I’m hungry _now_. I can’t wait. I have needs.”  
  
“No kidding.”  
  
“Plus, I picked up your extra-strength Viagra like you asked me to.” He starts to take his new dildo out of his coat pocket. You cover it with your hand. “Want another walnut?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“They’re really yummy.”  
  
“Give me five minutes.”  
  
“Two.”  
  
You poke your head back in the meeting, “Ted, review financials with everyone and then we’re adjourned until one.” He follows right behind you.  
  
“Until two. Adjourned until two.”  
  
Everyone looks at him and then you, like they’re afraid of him. Fine. “Until two. We’ll adjourn until two.”  
  
“Bye, everybody.” He’s so proud of himself.  
  
_He’s arrived._  
  
***************  
_everybody have you heard  
he's gonna buy me a mockingbird_  
  
_"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 11, 2011. The time is eleven thirteen a.m. The current temperature is forty-six degrees. You may enter your destination now."_  
  
“LOFT.”  
  
“What the hell's going on in here?”  
  
_"Thank you. Arrival time is six minutes.”_  
  
“Holy shit. Who is that?”  
  
“That’s my car.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“I know……do you really want lunch?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“FOOD.”  
  
_”Selection.”_  
  
“Is Thai okay? The usual?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“ONE.”  
  
“Menu.”  
  
“TWO.”  
  
_"Confirmed. Thank you.”_  
  
You reach over and put your hand on his upper thigh, under his jacket, wrapping it tightly around his leg. He shifts a little in his seat as it slides upward, the fabric of his pants soft in your hand.  
  
“Brian, you’re driv—"  
  
_”Incoming call: Zeal.”_  
  
“ANSWER.”  
  
He stares at the ceiling in bewilderment. You don’t move your hand.  
  
_"Brian, it’s Gabe. Early lunch today?”_  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
_”No problem, but listen, the ice machine is definitely on its last leg—"_  
  
“Which one? The kitchen or the bar?”  
  
_"The bar. That custom one. I’ve got to replace it soon, and I think it’s been discontinued.”_ You squeeze his leg, smile at him. He looks like he’s in the twilight zone.  
  
“Okay, Gabe, do this: call Ruben over at Babylon and tell him you need theirs from behind the bar. They have the same one. Tell him to go ahead and replace that one because they have a lot more space behind the bar than you do. Tell him not to worry about the budget. I’ll transfer it. Then call Emmett. If you don’t have his number, get it from Ted. Emmett can find any queer piece of kitchen equipment you need, trust me. We’ll go with another manufacturer. If we can’t find one to fit that space, we’ll have to renovate that bar, and I don’t want to do that.”  
  
_"I was hoping you’d let me have Babylon’s. I’ll call Ruben. I don’t know why I didn’t think about Emmett. I guess that’s why you’re the boss.”_  
  
“You’re a smart man, Gabe.”  
  
_"I must be, you’re always telling me that. Before I go, this isn’t what you usually order for lunch. It’s correct?”_  
  
“Lunch for two.”  
  
_”And at the loft? Oh, wait, did Justin make it back?”_ Your fingers wander to his crotch. He’s hard.  
  
“Oh, he made it on his back…. and on his knees, and on the floor, in front of the fire, and in—" He gives you a dirty look.  
  
_”Oh, okay, Brian. I get the picture.”_ He laughs. _”Just bring lunch on up then, as usual?”_  
  
“And put it away for me, if you don’t mind.”  
  
_"Yes, sir……welcome back, Justin.”_  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
_"Bye guys.”_  
  
“Brian! I can’t believe—"  
  
“Just a minute. EDIT.”  
  
_"Conversation onscreen. Please specify parameter.”_  
  
“Justin, can you look at the screen for me and tell me what time it says next to Gabe saying he’d call Ruben? I left my glasses in the office.”  
  
“The numbers out to the left?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“One seventeen.”  
  
“ARCHIVE ONE SEVENTEEN AND DELETE.”  
  
_”Conversation archived. Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Have a productive day.”_  
  
“What was _that_?”  
  
“I saved it. It was a business meeting. He’s my employee. The relevant points go in his file.”  
  
“You _own_ that restaurant?”  
  
“I most certainly do. Gabe is my restaurant manager.”  
  
“Holy shit. What else do you own?” You tighten your grip around his cock, now wet through your very favorite pants, and raise your eyebrow at him.  
  
“You…. _darling._ ”  
  
***************  
_I never knew love before,  
then came you_  
  
He’s quiet as a mouse in the elevator, and you notice that he’s not shaking his bag of walnuts in your face anymore. He walks inside looking around for proof that things are different or maybe the same, you can’t be sure. There’s a hint of amusement on your face as you watch him give the place a quick once-over from where he stands at the counter. His head inevitably turns around to look back at you and you immediately begin unbuttoning the buttons on his jacket. He stares at your fingers like they’re amazing. You lay his jacket on the bar and motion toward the bedroom, almost having to push him, he’s in such a daze.  
  
He sits on the bed, your bed, in his white t-shirt and his pants and takes his shoes off while you stand beside it and loosen and remove your dark brown tie, your coordinating shirt and hang them in the closet. When you start to unbuckle your belt, he lies back on the bed and just watches you, like he’s never seen you undress before. You close all of the panels to the bedroom because lunch will be here soon, remove and hang your pants, and he immediately props himself up on his arms and bends his knees like a crab when you climb into bed.  
  
You smile at him, kneeling between his legs, your fingers wrapping around the elastic of the pants of your dreams and making them disappear. He’s hard and wet and so fucking hot. You pull him down on the bed a little as you lift his legs and his lips are parted as you hold his thighs against you and push inside his perfect ass. One smooth stroke. Just like pulling into your heated garage at the end of day—a nice, warm, snug fit.  
  
He moans, grabbing your legs, his t-shirt bunching up around his arms as you fuck him. He licks his lips, once, twice, makes that face like he’s concentrating, his eyes never leaving your face, and your hands move down his legs and up his torso of their own volition, pulling his shirt over his head. Your arms wrap around each other at the same time. His hands and feet are warm on your back, and you listen to the little noises he makes and make a wish that they never stop.  
  
But they do and he holds his breath for a second when he hears the door open, and then remembers that it’s just lunch, and you both lie perfectly still, just staring at each other, his eyes so dilated, until it closes again. He exhales and then you slide your fingers through the back of his hair and kiss him.  
  
“Mmm, walnuts.”  
  
His fingers rub softly behind your ears and then straighten in your hair, pulling your face back to his. Hard.  
  
You wonder if you’ll ever be able to satisfy him; he looks so insatiability desperate.  
  
You’ll die trying.  
  
No matter how many times it takes.  
  
His legs tighten around you as he feels you grab him, clinging to you, as he licks the sweat off your neck. Your stomach flutters as his fingers massage his cock and your abs at the same time, your name the only word you can understand coming out of his mouth.  
  
Everything’s wet, slick, and hot, and like summertime you think, the sheets clinging to you and they’re not even on you, and, “ _Justin,_ ” he comes, shaking, and you feel it like it was you, not him. And you’re trying to decide, and then,  
  
“Fuck _me_ , Brian.”  
  
And your hips feel like they jack hammer inside him, even when you come. You can’t stop.  
  
“I can’t stop.”  
  
And you fall on top of him, your face on his, his feet caressing the back of your legs.  
  
“You stopped.”  
  
“I stopped.”  
  
Minutes later he’s wrapped in your arms wrapped in the sheets, fucked, kissed, and dozing off. You stroke his hair and glance at the clock: _12:38 p.m._. He shifts in your arms and you pull the duvet on top of both of you, breathing him in. He finds your hand under the covers and winds his fingers through yours, pushing back against you, breathing a soft moan into your pillow. You tuck your leg over his and his breathing slows down, his body feeling heavier in your arms.  
  
He’s asleep.  
  
Six years was more than worth the wait. It dawns on you as you look out the window at the cold, gray Pittsburgh day that it’ll probably storm again tonight, and you smile, your lips in his hair, because you could care less if it pours rain every day from now until the day you die.  
  
Because you, Brian Kinney, finally own the sunshine.  
  
***************  
_if I were the King of the world  
tell you what I'd do  
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars  
and make sweet love to you_  
  
  
_"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 10, 2012. If you’re receiving this customized greeting, it’s because you forgot that today's our one year anniversary. But I forgive you because you’re a very busy man and because you fucked me so hard this morning that I slept until noon. I don’t know what got into you. For dinner tonight, you’re having an exquisite fellatio appetizer, followed by Twink casserole topped with candied walnuts and a nice tossed salad with our exclusive House dressing. Hurry home. I’ll be waiting……in the studio. And please be careful Mr. Kinney, it looks like rain…….. Happy Anniversary, Brian. I love you.”_  
  
“ARCHIVE.”  
  
  
The end.

 

_This story precedes Beyond the Yellow Brick Road and is part of the overall series._  
  
  
  
Lyrics were taken from _Just What I Needed_ , The Cars*; _Then Came You_ , The Spinners with Dionne Warwick*; _Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?_ , Rod Stewart*; _Rock Me Gently _, Andy Kim; _Morning Train_ , Sheena Easton; _Rock the Boat_ , The Hughes Corporation; _Mockingbird_ , Carly Simon & James Taylor; _Joy to the World_ , Three Dog Night. All songs are listed in order of appearance. *Some song were used more than once.__


	3. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This begins the actual series (predicated by _Embark_ and _Framed._ When this scene starts, Brian is looking back...  
>  [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/19/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-PROLOGUE  
  
** BRIAN’S POV  
 _I’m sleeping with myself tonight_  
  
You decided a long time ago that when you love someone, you do two things:  
  
Let him know.  
  
Let him go.  
  
You probably did the former too late and the latter too often. That’s the only way it makes sense to you, except for a long time after he left and sometimes even now, you think to yourself that you should’ve never done either one.  
  
It’s complicated.  
  
But not really.  
  
Looking back on it now, way, way back, you can see almost every mistake you made from the very beginning. Well, almost the very beginning. To be fair, you weren’t really paying that much attention in the very beginning. After eleven years, that’s a helluva lot of mistakes. You’ll never fix all of them; it’s statistically impossible. And you’re not the only one that fucked up, not by a long shot, but that doesn’t matter to you. For as long as you live, no matter what happens, no matter how many ways you try to deny it or hide from it or make it go away, he’ll always be at the top of your list—the only one that really matters to you.  
  
When he left for New York, you comforted yourself with stiff drinks and rationales: falling in love with him was never the main objective. It was more of a nuisance really, something that just kept interfering with your single-minded, hard-headed obsession to take care of him whether he wanted you to or not.  
  
Until he didn’t want you to. And he wanted to leave, and you couldn’t help but think it was because he’d finally gotten everything he’d wanted.  
  
You.  
  
Cut wide open. Just for him. The chase was over.  
  
So you told yourself that it was just like you’d suspected all along—he didn’t like what he saw. Didn’t surprise you; you didn’t much like it either.  
  
Maybe he wanted the dream that he couldn’t even remember—the elusive man that showed up out of nowhere to dance with him, to sweep him off his feet, the dream that stopped right at the good night kiss.  
  
Maybe he wanted the man that always kept him guessing, not the man who gave him all the answers. And he deserved all of those things. And you knew he’d find them or maybe even be that dream for somebody else. He loved you, but it was tinged with something else, something that was dangerously close to resembling pity. It was time to say good-bye.  
  
At least for a while.  
  
At least in the daytime.  
  
Stiff drinks and rationales have always been a deadly mix before you close your eyes...  
  
************  
 _ballerina,_  
you must have seen her,  
dancing in the sand  
  
 _Ibiza._  
  
 _The bright sun on the beach and he was there, but you didn’t know exactly why. You couldn’t figure it out. You just knew that he was sort of on vacation. But not with you. And not with any clothes on._  
  
 _And not alone. Someone was taking care of him._  
  
 _In your absence._  
  
 _‘It’s not that I can’t. I won’t.’_  
  
 _You could see Justin, out in the ocean, beyond where the waves break, frolicking in the water, but you were frozen. Literally, stuck in the sand. You couldn’t take a step toward him. It was as if a line had been drawn that you couldn’t cross._  
  
 _The sun was setting._  
  
 _You didn’t even see him until he spoke to you, his cigarette glowing in your direction. You just realized you were still in your work clothes._  
  
 _“'Bout time you got here.”_  
  
 _Ian. Ethan. “What the fuck are you doing here?”_  
  
 _Justin did a flip in the water, yelled for Ethan to watch him, like he was eight years old. He couldn’t see you?_  
  
 _“You should know that he asks for you every five minutes.” You felt like you’d been standing there forever. And he hadn’t asked for you once. Ethan kept looking back and forth at Justin like a proud but anxious parent._  
  
 _“What’s going on?” You were nervous._  
  
 _Nervous as hell._  
  
 _“He’s washing himself off. From the bleeding,” he told you. You stared at him. “Does it all day long. Bleeds, I mean. It never stops.” You looked at your shoes. Ethan looked at Justin and waved. Justin waved back with both hands, smiled, and dove back under the water. “Anyway, it’s your turn. You watch him tonight.” He flicked his cigarette on the sand and gave you a disgusted look._  
  
 _“I can’t. I don’t have time to stand here all night.” You wanted to, or you wanted to want to, but you couldn’t. You were leaving. You started to walk away._  
  
 _When you looked up, you were at your car in the beach’s parking lot, a light layer of sand covering the asphalt. Ethan was standing right on top of you as you tried to unlock the passenger door. Why were you trying to get in the wrong side of the fucking car?_  
  
 _Ethan was angry. Frustrated._  
  
 _Fed up._  
  
 _“What am I supposed to tell him when he asks me why you left? Why you aren’t here?”_  
  
 _You were confused. Panicked._  
  
 _You started yelling at him, “Why are you at my car? Why aren’t you watching him? You can’t be up here.”_  
  
 _“I can watch him from anywhere. Doesn’t matter where I am.”_  
  
 _ You couldn’t see Justin from the parking lot, you could only think about high tides and low tides, about under tows dragging him away. “No, you can’t. You can’t see him from here!”_  
  
 _Ethan looked at you like you were a contemptuous idiot and laughed, “He can’t swim, Brian. He never could.”_

  
  
Lyrics taken from Elton John’s _Someone Saved my Life Tonight_ and _Tiny Dancer_.


	4. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 1-Indication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuing on the yellow brick road...  
> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/21/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 1-INDICATION  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
 _love on the rocks  
ain’t no surprise  
pour me a drink  
and I’ll tell you some lies_  
  
They say the first year of marriage is always the hardest, and while that’s true, it’s certainly not specific enough. It’s more like the first week. But you’re Brian Kinney, and you love a challenge.  
  
Or was that pain?  
  
Fuck, you can’t remember.  
  
It must have been the first Tuesday or Wednesday night of your marriage, you’ve decided, that the shit hit the fan. Your first fight. And in true Kinney-Taylor fashion, it was a doozy.  
  
And you never saw it coming.  
  
He always has dinner ready right when you walk in the door, and he knows right when you’re going to walk in the door because you call him the minute you get in The Car. That’s what he calls it now. _The Car._ After two months of marriage, he figured out how to dial into The Car’s computer from home, so he could always know where you are. You had the damn thing upgraded with some kick ass wife-buster firewall and put an end to that shit.  
  
Immediately.  
  
Nobody was coming between you and _The Car._  
  
But that night, you had something on your mind (which still belongs to you and only to you, thank you very much) when you walked in the door, and you had to take care of it before you forgot, so you headed up the stairs to your study.  
  
You kissed him first. You’re not an idiot.  
  
“I’ll be right down. I just remembered something.” Something important. Something that Cynthia or Theodore or The Car couldn’t do for you. An idea. A Brian Kinney original idea. Something that really excited you.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Thirty minutes later you were still upstairs. And then he was, in the doorway of your study.  
  
It never dawned on you that he hadn’t even seen this room before.  
  
“Brian, dinner’s getting col- What’s that?” He pointed to the painting on the wall. It was, in retrospect, a very rhetorical question. You looked up. You’d forgotten all about it. It’d been there for four, no five years.  
  
“One of your paintings.”  
  
“I can see that. Why do you have it?” It’s huge. It took up almost the entire wall of the study over your desk. You needed something there. It fit perfectly.  
  
“I bought it.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“When it was for sale.” It was a rather banal conversation you thought, at the time.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I wanted it. I needed something to hang on the wall.”  
  
“You needed something to hang on the wall.” He has a way of speaking sometimes that can make you feel like your age difference is reversed.  
  
Wrong answer.  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“You weren’t at that show. That was my first show in New York, and you weren’t there. You said you couldn’t come. Why do you have that painting?”  
  
“I bought it over the phone, Justin.”  
  
“You bought it over the phone.” He repeated it back to you slowly, like you were retarded. You felt retarded. “Fuck you.” He went back downstairs. The great idea you were working on looked incredibly stupid on your screen in front of you. You shut down your laptop and followed him.  
  
The two of you ate in silence.  
  
You tried to help him clean up, but he wouldn’t let you.  
  
“Go upstairs and work on your shit, Brian.”  
  
“I don’t want to.”  
  
“Well, I don’t need your help.”  
  
You sat down at the kitchen table and just stared at him as he shoved plates back into the kitchen cabinets. To this day, you have no idea why he just won’t use the fucking dishwasher.  
  
“I’m not sure I know why you’re so angry, Justin.”  
  
“I’m sure you don’t. You can be rather obtuse.” He sprayed cleaner on the counter and half of it got on you.  
  
“Well, why don’t we just agree on that and that way you can just tell me what the fuck you’re so pissed about? Save us both some time.” You tried to take the edge off your voice. He stopped cleaning the counter for the fourth time and stared at you.  
  
“Let me walk you through this, Brian. What day of my show did you buy that painting?”  
  
“The first day, I think.”  
  
“Right. And you just called up there and said, ‘Hi, I want to buy one of Justin Taylor’s paintings. Just send me any old one. Here’s my credit card?’”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, then, what?”  
  
“I said I wanted a big one. I knew where it was going.”  
  
“Any old big one?” Oh shit.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Go on, Brian.”  
  
“I asked for the names of them. That’s how I decided.”  
  
“That painting doesn’t have a name, Brian.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You know. Get out of this kitchen and leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”  
  
He spent the rest of the evening locked in his studio. You spent most of it outside the door, listening to him. He was painting so loud, you imagined you could hear the brush strokes. Finally, around midnight, convinced he was just going to keep rattling around in there, you went to bed. Needless to say, it was the first night since he’d been back that you’d gone to sleep without him.  
  
It didn’t last long.  
  
A jarring crash woke you up an hour and half later. You bolted up in bed. He still wasn’t beside you. The door to his studio was still locked. You knocked.  
  
“Justin, are you okay? What was that noise?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Another crash. Not as loud. “Just leave me alone.”  
  
“Open the door.”  
  
“Go back to bed, Brian.”  
  
You shook your head at the door in frustration. Fuck this. You have a master key for a reason. You turned the light on in your study to find it and saw the reason for the crash. The painting was gone. It was way too big for him to handle by himself. You removed the key from the top drawer, returned to the studio door and knocked again, giving him one more chance to open it.  
  
“Justin, I’m worried about you. Open the door.”  
  
“Leave me alone.”  
  
You counted about ten reasons in your head that you shouldn’t open the door.  
  
********************  
 _her weapons were her crystal eyes  
making every man a man_  
  
But you did it anyway. The painting was propped against the back wall, covering three windows. He turned around and glared at you,  
  
“You _asshole._ ”  
  
“You stole my painting.”  
  
“I told you to leave me alone.”  
  
“I’m not going to leave you alone. Not when you’re carrying murals around the fucking house by yourself in the middle of the night.”  
  
“You had no right to buy that painting.” The fire in his eyes.  
  
“It’s capitalism, Justin. I had every right.” He threw an empty paint can at you. You ducked.  
  
“You know what the fuck I mean. This is why I hate you, Brian, because you stand there and act like you don’t know what the fuck I mean when you know damn good and well what the fuck I mean. _This_ is why I hate you.” He wasn’t making any sense, just repeating himself again, “This is why I hate you,” as he slid down the wall, the reluctant emotions he was trying so hard to hold back starting to get the best of him. “Just _leave me alone._ ”  
  
You walked over and sat down next to him, carefully putting your arm around him, “I’m trying very hard to understand what the fuck you mean. I swear.”  
  
He lifted his face from his hands and looked at you, imploring you to understand him, “When I put that painting in that show, I didn’t _want_ it back, Brian. I didn’t want to see it again. You had no right to buy it. I hate that fucking painting.”  
  
“Okay. Okay.” He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a blank expression on his face.  
  
You looked at the painting, really looked at it for probably the first time since it had arrived all those years ago. To anyone else, it probably just looks like a big, black rectangle. But not to you.  
  
And not to him.  
  
You saw things in it the minute it arrived. Things you didn’t want to see. Colors you didn’t want to remember. And their placement wasn’t an accident, or at least you didn’t think it was, you couldn’t be sure. You wanted to ask him, even back then, but you were afraid. Afraid of the answer he’d give you. Afraid because he didn’t give the painting a name. He always names his paintings.  
  
He names everything.  
  
 _Gus. Kinnetik. ‘Britin.’_  
  
When you called the gallery that day, the innocent call to fill the space on your wall with a Justin Taylor original, you didn’t mean to buy a memory.  
  
But you did. And you knew it. And you made yourself forget it.  
  
Until now.  
  
“I’m sorry, Justin.”  
  
He didn’t look at you. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to tell you what he was thinking or if you were just supposed to know. Something told you that you were supposed to know. You felt like you were failing miserably, so you just wrapped your arms around him. He didn’t really move, but he didn’t pull away. And then he spoke, his voice low, but precise,  
  
“You bought it on purpose because it didn’t have a name, Brian. I know you did.” You have two others somewhere that are also untitled.  
  
No, wait.  
  
Three.  
  
It wasn’t the right time to tell him.  
  
“You’re right. I did. I shouldn’t have.” He was quiet for a few seconds and then laid his head on your shoulder. Finally. You realized that you hadn’t been breathing.  
  
“It was mine to give away. Not yours to keep.” You stroked his hair, tried to comfort him. “You already have everything, Brian. You have all of it. I have nothing. Why do you have to scrounge for every last fucking thing?”  
  
“I don’t know.” You wish you knew. There are so many things you wish you knew. “Just do whatever you want with it, Justin. Whatever you want.”  
  
You thought you were saving something, a piece of him. What the fuck were you thinking? You’ve abandoned more of yourself in the last forty years of your life than you’ve ever cared to keep. Why can’t you grant him the same luxury?  
  
Why isn’t he allowed to let go?  
  
“Will you come to bed with me?” you asked him as his body felt heavier against you. He nodded and you helped him up, closing the door to the studio behind both of you as you made your way down the hall. He sat on the bed, exhausted, and you undressed him and helped him get under the covers. He fell asleep within minutes, holding your hand on top of his chest.  
  
********************  
 _asleep while I wrestle with blue_  
  
The dreams started again that night and you danced with him. While he was gone, for those six years, you’d dreamed night after night about him coming back, awakened with your hand between your legs, wet and sticky, feeling like you were in the middle of a prayer, like you’d burned up all of the hope inside you.  
  
 _He waited for you, saved the last dance, and you melted his heart when you walked in the room, felt the heat between your legs for some reason. You owned that room when you crossed the floor, and when you touched him, you bought him, too—all of him, his perfectly shined shoes, his immaculate tuxedo, the bloody scarf you brought him to wear around his neck.  
  
The perfect corsage.  
  
“Justin!”  
  
He couldn’t hear you.  
  
You panicked and danced.  
  
Panicked and danced.  
  
“Whatever happens, by all means, keep on dancing.”  
  
You kept dancing because eventually you knew he’d give it back to you, and he did. It was as white as virgin snow.  
  
Pure, just like he was.  
  
"Did you see their faces?”  
  
Sporting dead eyes and bloody scarves around their necks. All of them. You hung the bloody scarf around his for the last time and sealed his fate with a kiss.  
  
“I wish I could forget.”_  
  
So ridiculously tragic. You don’t believe in happy endings. You never have.  
  
You woke up and he was sleeping soundly next to you on his back. You took him in your arms to see if he was real.  
  
“Mmm, you okay?” He stirred a little.  
  
“Bad dream.” He curled back against you.  
  
“Sorry,” he yawned and settled back down.  
  
You stared at the ceiling, at the walls, at the chair beside the bed. You stared at the curve of his neck as it gave way to his shoulder. You closed your eyes and pressed your face against his back so you wouldn’t have to stare at anything, the scent of him sleeping so familiar to you—  
  
“Go to sleep, Brian.” He reached back, rubbing your thigh. “S’okay.”  
  
You tried to sleep, to clear your head, but the campaign you’d been rolling around in your head all day wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’d been in advertising long enough to know that belaboring something like this was pointless. Advertising, like fucking, was somewhat of an art. It was about timing, attraction, and a little preparation. The rest just fell into place. When a product needed a new logo or a slogan and it didn’t come to you right away, you didn’t obsess over it, you indulged yourself—played a little pool, won a little money, got your dick sucked, threw back a few. Eventually, the right idea would rise to the top. Much like the thousands of tricks who’d gladly been at your mercy, you just had to be open and ready.  
  
Justin was that way when he worked, unafraid to let anything come through him in order to let it out. You’d seen it after the bashing, after dumpster boy, during the Posse, after the bombing. When darkness moved through him, it rarely cast a shadow.  
  
But when it did, it was bigger than both of you.  
  
When you finally fell asleep, an hour or so later, you dreamed of making the perfect pitch in your mind, of getting them in the tent, of convincing them that sex is the only thing that sells tickets. But he was in the corner the entire time, a solemn, distant look on his face, painting and painting and painting that nameless, goddamn mural.  
  
He was trying to sell them death.  
  
And it was working.  
  
You were unconvincing. Ineffective. Impotent in your own domain.  
  
You made a decision when you woke up again, your eyes settling on the blue lit clock on your dresser: _4:47 a.m._  
  
Fuck this.  
  
You and Justin needed to get away for awhile, first thing in the morning.  
  
Time for a little indulgence.  
  
You were going on your honeymoon.

 

  
  
Lyrics from Neil Diamond’s _Love on the Rocks_ , Bananarama’s _Venus_ , The Comas _Sweet Sweet 69_.


	5. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 2-Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/24/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 2-THRESHOLD  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
 _my baby don’t mess around_  
  
Justin had spent the previous Sunday morning of that week, his fifth day back in your life, grocery shopping at one of those warehouse stores because as he’d informed you the day before that when you realized that you were out of peanut butter and egg whites, “He wasn’t your goddamn housewife.” Therefore it made sense to him, he explained, to only go to the grocery store once a quarter.  He came home with thirty-two boxes of Cheerios and a case of condoms.  
  
“Here, this oughta last us for a while.”  
  
“What’d you do, rent a mini-van?”  
  
“I took your car.”  
  
“You took my car?”  
  
“Yep. And I hate that thing. It needs to shut up. ‘Mr. Kinney’ this and ‘Mr. Kinney’ that. It’s so _oppressive_.” You asked him how he planned to make you an egg-white omelet with Cheerios. He put his hand on his hip, and gave you the four-one-one, “Look, I’ve already ordered all of our groceries online. They’ll be delivered once a week. Every Monday. I can’t have my creative energy interrupted because you’re out of guava juice. You’ll break my flow. That’s not gonna work.”  
  
You held your hands up like his forward posture was a loaded weapon, “Okay. Okay. Whatever you say.”  
  
“Good. Then it’s settled. If there’s something you want that I didn’t order, just email me and I’ll add it to the next week’s list.”  
  
“Email you? Can’t I just tell you when I bump into you in the shower or something?” Jesus.  
  
“You’re the one with the techno-car. You’re Mr. Technology, not me. Why don’t you just tell the car and have the car tell me? That way you and I don’t even have to communicate.”  
  
“What is your fucking problem?” you asked his ass as he turned around and walked away from you.  
  
“I think you’re fucking that car. That’s my problem.”  
  
You followed him upstairs and proved him wrong.  
  
Twice.  
  
But this morning, your thoughts were elsewhere when you opened your eyes and saw him walk past the bedroom door and down the hall with a bowl of what could only be an attempt to dwindle the cereal reserves in the pantry. He didn’t even cast a glance back into the bedroom. You heard him open the door to his studio. He didn’t close it.  
  
Somehow you just knew you weren’t getting laid this morning.  
  
You were right.  
  
You waited a few minutes to see if maybe he was just checking to see if the studio was still there and was going to come back to bed, but he didn’t, so you got up and pulled on some Brown Athletics sweat pants and a t-shirt and walked down the hall.  You stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jam, watching him as he held his bowl of cereal in one hand and sorted various paintings and sketches on his table with the other. He seemed lost in thought, rearranging them, stopping to look at them, and then moving them around again. When he picked one up and held it up to the light coming in from the window, he saw you standing there.  
  
“You scared me.”  
  
He didn’t seem scared. The painting, the mural that the two of you’d fought about the night before was still leaning against the windows, but he’d covered it with a drop cloth. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect it or hide it.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“What’re you doing? Are you working from home today or something?” You would’ve been long gone by then. It was almost eight thirty.  
  
“Or something.” He went back to sorting his drawings after eating a huge spoonful of cereal. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Deciding what I want to work on today.” He carried a sketch over to one of his easels and propped it on the tray. “I made coffee. Want me to get you some?” You would’ve killed for some coffee right then.  
  
“I’ll get it myself in a minute.”  
  
He looked at you, “What’s wrong?” He likes to get your coffee as long as you don’t _tell_ him to get it. It’s a very delicate thing—the coffee protocol. You don’t fuck with it.  
  
You shrugged, “Wanna get outta here?”  
  
“Get outta where?” Another picture on another easel.  
  
“Here. This house, this city, this state. Go away for few days.”  
  
He studied your face, “Why?”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Now. Let’s get ready and go.”  
  
“Can I finish my cereal?”  
  
*****************************  
 _she blinded me with science_  
  
You found a perfect parking place at the airport, and punched in your PIN number to lock your computer. Justin was gathering his bag off the floorboard.  
  
“SECURE.”  
  
“ _Enter time frame._ ”  
  
“Justin, what’s today’s date?”  
  
He stared at the ceiling and said, “CALENDAR.” The car didn’t respond. “BITCH.”  
  
You laughed a little, “It doesn’t know your voice, and that’s not the command. The command is “DATE.”  
  
“ _Today is Thursday, February 17, 2011._ ”  
  
“SECURE. TODAY. SUNDAY. FEBRUARY 20.” Anyone so much as breathed on _The Car_ before then, and a swat team would’ve descended on them.  
  
“ _Thank you. Secured until Sunday, February 20, 2011.”_  
  
He rolled his eyes at you, “Why’d you ask me if the damn car’s gonna tell you anyway?”  
  
“I was trying to include you in the conversation?”  
  
“I really worry about you sometimes, Brian. You are _not_ having a _conversation_ with the car. The car is a goddamn robot.”  
  
But it’s your robot.  
  
You waited until he opened his door and was actually outside the car before you patted the dashboard a couple of times and whispered to it, “I’ll be back.”  
  
You’d never been away from it for this long before.  
  
*****************************  
 _vacation  
all I ever wanted  
vacation  
had to get away_  
  
Nate Rockford, Leo Brown’s man behind the scenes, had become your primary point of contact with Brown Athletics over the past three years. Leo was aging, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams (thanks to you), and wasn’t much interested in the day-to-day operations of a sporting goods company. Nate wasn’t either, actually, but his role allowed him to do what he did best: manage from behind the curtain. Now that Brown Athletics had become a global brand in a global economy, now that the world was truly on its way to embracing peace across all borders, the concepts of teamwork and unity were selling basketballs and sweatshirts by the billions. Anytime there was a major sporting event, the opening of a new stadium or arena, or, lo and behold, the Olympics, Brown Athletics was everywhere, and if you looked close enough, you could always see Nate Rockford somewhere in the background on his cell phone making sure that every single branding detail was in place.  
  
“Basically Brian, we want to be the most solid, the most familiar, most thought about name in sporting goods, sportswear, sports. You name it. By every single person, every group we can think of. Don’t leave anyone out.”  
  
“Unique uniformity.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
You pictured starving children in Africa running around in Brown Athletics t-shirts.  
  
“You’re one of a million and one in a million,” you said showing him an overhead shot of a 'million' people wearing the exact same Brown Athletics t-shirt and track pants and then another where everyone but the person in the middle of the shot had on their regular clothes. “Makes you want to be one of us.”  
  
“Perfect. Done.” You shook hands. “Keep up the good work. I’ll be in touch.”  
  
Massaging that account was the smartest move you’d ever made.  
  
The Rockford in New Hampshire had been in business since 1953 as one of the most popular ski resorts in the state. It belonged to Nate’s father and then subsequently to him. Owning and running a ski lodge wasn’t exactly Nate’s cup of tea, but he couldn’t bear to sell it, having spent so much time there as a child and thinking of it largely as his second home. From his descriptions of the place, there wasn’t anything elegant about it, but it brought in obscene amounts of money. He and his wife never had any children, and Nate often spoke about the place as if he spent more time there than at his actual house. He seemed to be one of those people that didn’t mind if there were brand new, perfect strangers wandering around his home each week. He thought it was an opportunity to meet people, to network.  
  
You thought he was weird.  
  
Nate was an out-going guy who never met someone he didn’t like. You wondered if you were that way, and then decided that you were, but only if that someone was sucking your dick.  
  
To each their own.  
  
In your meetings over the past few years, Nate had always patted you on the back as he was walking out the door and said, “Don’t be a stranger, Brian. Come on up and spend some time. You’ll love it. And bring your son. Gus? On me. Least I can do.”  
  
You told him you’d come up there if he’d come to Babylon. He laughed. “You gonna explain that to my wife? Don’t you have a Babylon postcard or something?”  
  
So you took him to lunch at Zeal and then gave him a tour of Babylon during the day, when it was safe, “This is my world.” He looked amazed, but smiled the entire time, especially in the backroom, asked you a bunch of questions about what actually went on back there. You were beaming with pride as you answered all of them. “This is a sling.” You knew all he was thinking about was how he could get the name ‘Brown Athletics’ on that sling.  
  
He patted you on the back as he caught a cab out in front of the club to head to the airport, “Okay, so now you owe me. I better see your ass at my place.”  
  
“I had no idea you were interested in my ass.”  
  
“Take care, Brian. Send me those mock-ups.”  
  
“Will do.”  
  
The Rockford welcomed you with open arms, your one call to Nate that morning all that was needed to line out your instant honeymoon. Nate’s middle name at Brown Athletics was ‘I’ll handle everything,’ and he had. A sixty second conversation with him, and you had an all expense-paid vacation for the next four days. The man lived up his reputation.  
  
Nice.  
  
Wealth was so… comforting.  
  
*****************************  
 _I thought love was only true in fairy tales  
meant for someone else but not for me_  
  
The restaurant at the lodge had the most incredible view of night skiing and the view across the table from you was just as breathtaking. It really made you wonder why you hadn’t done this before. Your waiter was obviously gay and was cruising Justin hard. Years ago, it would have pissed you off because he wasn’t cruising _you_ , but now you’re just flattered when that happens, more evidence of your impeccably good taste.  
  
Justin was fairly quiet on the plane and not very talkative at dinner. You broke the silence, “You know, it’s amazing to me how you give off such a strong gay-vibe, but not such a strong ‘taken-vibe.’”  
  
He wiggled his eyebrows at you, “I’m talented like that.”  
  
“Apparently.” You watched him chew his baked potato and stare out the window as you refilled his wine glass.  
  
“You’re trying to get me drunk.”  
  
“I don’t have to try. It requires no effort whatsoever.”  
  
“This place is really nice, Brian. It’s ungodly freezing, but it’s beautiful.” You knew he was referring to the scenery and not the décor. You were both kind of trying to ignore the décor.  
  
“Yeah, it is.” The dining room was clearing out a little; your dinner started late to begin with. A log crackled and split in the fireplace, and you watched as your waiter reset two tables near you. You caught his eye and tapped on your bottle of wine. He brought you another. “Thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure, sir.”  
  
“What are you thinking about?” you asked him because you could see the wheels turning in his blond little head.  
  
He smiled, “I just never in a million years, much less this morning, thought I’d be sitting in a place like this with you, you know? I feel like I should pinch myself or something.”  
  
“I’ll be glad to pinch you.” He kicked your shin under the table. You opened the second bottle of wine and filled your glass.  
  
"This place belongs to the guy who runs Brown Athletics?" he asked you, his fork poised in the air.  
  
"Yeah. Nate Rockford. They're my biggest account."  
  
"Wasn't that the account you were trying to get when you couldn't go to Vermont that time?"  
  
"Actually, yes. It was."  
  
"Ironic, huh?"  
  
“We should’ve done this a long time ago, Justin. But we didn’t, so I guess we just go forward from here.”  
  
“Yeah. It really was important for you to take that trip."  
  
"Yeah, it was."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He seemed preoccupied or tired, not his usual enthusiastic self. You chalked it up to the emotional evening you’d had the night before and the traveling today. You hadn’t fucked him in almost thirty-six hours, definitely the longest you’d gone without making love since he’d been back. You wanted him.  
  
And it wasn’t something you were used to, not getting what you wanted.  
  
For the last six years, while he’d been gone, your life had changed while you hadn’t even been paying attention. You knew he didn’t know; he hadn’t been around to see it. Hell, you didn’t even see it, and you were living it. You began acquiring things other than men, other than notches in your belt. First Babylon, then the restaurant, and you always had other projects in the works, things that came and went. You were still at Babylon on many a night, but more often than not, you were in your office transferring funds into the operating account, meeting with Ruben about careless bartenders who were serving under age twinks, and then, occasionally, plucking someone off the dance floor to finish off your evening. But your choices were getting younger and younger, and if you chose someone older, it just complicated matters. Men in their later twenties or worse were there to meet someone; you were quite the catch to them. And you were nobody’s catch.  
  
Except Justin’s.  
  
It just didn’t make much sense to you anymore. It was either boring or annoying, and you hated both. Getting some idiotic club-kid to suck your dick at eleven o’clock at night just became a hassle, and a pointless one at that, when you knew who you were literally saving yourself for. It gave you a perverse sense of satisfaction to pass those boys by and leave them wondering why _you_ didn’t want _them_. Suddenly, the whole scene felt beneath you.  
  
You’d also listened to Debbie’s and Michael’s, and, in the beginning, Theodore’s, endless ramblings about how you should pack up everything and move to New York. Expand Kinnetik. Follow Justin. Be with him. And you’d be one hell of a liar if you said you didn’t come damn close to doing it, but Ted saw your reluctance even before you admitted it to yourself. You were sitting in the conference room one day at Kinnetik about three weeks after Justin had been gone sifting through various options for office space in the Big Apple:  
  
"All right. What gives?” he finally asked you after fifteen minutes of putting up with your fleeting attention.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“What’s wrong with you? Your heart’s not in this.”  
  
“Why do you say that?”  
  
“Because you don’t give a damn about this. You’re not bossing me around about it. You don’t care about the office space. You’re not listening to me when I’m going over the business plan. You’re not even acting excited about this at all.” Sometimes the fact that Ted was an accountant and was used to distilling things down to raw figures leant itself well to your style of emotional management.  
  
You pushed your chair away from the table and stood up, “My heart _is_ in this, that’s the problem.”  
  
“This is what you’ve always wanted. To make it big. ‘New York’s where it’s at.’ I’ve listened to you go on about that for years.”  
  
“I wanted to make it big, on my own. I’ve done that. I’ve got national accounts. That’s not it. I can’t do this. I’m sorry we wasted so much time on it.” Ted gathered up all of the files the two of you had been going over and started putting everything away. You sat down, defeated. “There’s nothing I want more than to be with him.”  
  
“Then I’m not sure I understand.”  
  
“If I do this, if I show up there now, he’s going to feel obligated to be with me, and I don’t want that. If I go up there and we live separate lives, and I make it big, he’ll feel like I’m competing with him. If I fail, he’ll feel guilty. This is his chance to be somebody. I didn’t want anybody hanging onto me when I was his age or when I almost got to go to New York; I can’t do that to him. There’s no way this will work.”  
  
He looked at you at nodded his head, “Father Kinney’s Home for Runaway Boys is closed for business then, huh?”  
  
“He’s not a boy anymore.”  
  
That night you and Ted went out and got very, very drunk. Well, you did. Ted watched and eventually drove you home. It was the first time he’d ever driven the ‘vette. From what you remember, you sat in some no-name bar with him regaling him with all the reasons you couldn’t go to New York.  
  
“This isn’t a list of reasons why you can’t go to New York, Brian. This is a list of ‘Things I Love About Justin.’”  
  
“It’s the same fucking thing, goddamnit. Stop interrupting my list.”  
  
“Okay. Sorry.”  
  
“So, I don’t know what number I’m on, but it’s his socks. See my socks?” You vaguely remember swinging your leg up on Ted’s lap.  
  
“This is number seven.”  
  
“Goddamnit, Theodore, you just interrupted me again.”  
  
“I answered your question!”  
  
“Did you know that Theodore was one of The Chipmunks?”  
  
“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”  
  
“Fucking Chipmunks. Who was their damn leader?"  
  
“You mean Alvin?”  
  
“No, the human dude.”  
  
“You mean Dave?”  
  
“Yeah, that freaky guy. They were always saying, ‘C’mon Dave.’” You did your Chipmunks impression. No one appreciated it but you.  
  
“I really didn’t need to hear that. What’s number seven?"  
  
“Oh yeah, number seven. See my socks? See how tight they are? That’s how you should wear your socks. But Justin doesn’t wear his socks like that. No. His socks are always too big for his feet. Every time he takes his fucking shoes off, his socks are all baggy.”  
  
“I never noticed.”  
  
“And I fucking cannot stand that. I mean if you take your shoes off, and your socks are loose, then you pull them up. How can you just walk around with baggy socks?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
“But he doesn’t even care. Just walks around with his socks flopping all over the place, driving me up fucking wall.”  
  
“So inconsiderate.”  
  
“I told him. I said, ‘Your socks are too big. Buy smaller socks.’ And you know what he said?”  
  
“He likes them that way?”  
  
“How did you know that? That’s exactly what he said. Told me to fuck off and worry about my own socks.”  
  
“You hate socks. You always walk around barefoot.”  
  
“Exactly, Theodore. That is why you are so fucking smart.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I miss his baggy socks.”  
  
“I know you do.”  
  
“What number am I on?”  
  
“Eight. You’re on number eight.”  
  
“Eight. He does this thing when I fuck him—"  
  
“Okay, Brian. You’ve had enough. Time for me to take you home.”  
  
And then, finally, six years later, you’d gotten a call a little after eleven o’clock one night while you were sitting in bed surfing for porn and watching the news. You looked at the caller ID: New York City, but a number you didn’t recognize.  
  
“Hello?  
  
 _“It’s me.”_  
  
“Hey.”  
  
 _“Hey.”_  
  
“You all right?”  
  
As the years had gone on, you’d spoken to him less and less, not because you didn’t want to or he didn’t want to, but because it was just too hard. It just became an unspoken understanding between the two of you. The conversations you had with him always went fine; it was after you hung up the phone that you just couldn’t take anymore. The dread would start the minute you’d hear his voice.  
  
“ _I’m fine. I know it’s late. Is it too late?”_  
  
“No. It’s fine. Just watching the news.”  
  
 _“I called because I want to talk to you.”_ You turned off the television. The dread was already starting.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
 _“I don’t want to live in New York anymore. I don’t need to be here.”_  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
 _“No. It’s too expensive. Too hectic.”_  
  
“Right.”  
  
 _“I want to come home.”_ You shut your computer off and pushed it off your lap.  
  
“You do?”  
  
 _“I want to be with you.”_  
  
“When?”  
  
 _“I don’t exactly feel right just calling up and asking you this, but I don’t know how else to do it.”_  
  
“When?”  
  
 _“Three, four months. When my lease is up, so you’ve got a while to think about it. It would have to work this time, Brian. I’ve thought about it. I know what I want.”_  
  
“Right.”  
  
 _“I’m sorry to do this out of the blue. I feel really weird.”_  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
 _“Okay, well, I’ll let you go. You can think about it and let me know.”_ He hung up before you could say anything. You looked at the clock: _11:14 p.m.  
  
……….  
  
……….  
  
11:15 p.m._  
  
You picked up the phone and called him back.  
  
“ _Hello.”_  
  
“I don’t need to think about it. You can come home tonight if you want.”  
  
 _“I think you should think about it. It’s a big step. It’s been years.”_  
  
“I don’t want anybody else. I’m never gonna want anybody else. I don’t need to think about it.”  
  
 _“I want to be monogamous. Maybe not right away, but eventually. I love you, Brian. I don’t want to share you with anybody.”_  
  
“Okay.”  
  
 _“I’ll call you in a couple weeks when I have more details.”_  
  
“Sounds great.” It occurred to you that you might be dreaming.  
  
“ _Brian, thanks.”_  
  
“Thank you.” And you were listening to a dial tone again.  
  
You stared at the phone for a few seconds before putting it back in its charger, your fingers instinctively picking up your cigarettes and lighter that were right beside it. You lit one and tried to smoke it, the tightness in your throat making it impossible. Grabbing your ashtray, you took it and sat in the dark in the chair beside your bedroom window.  
  
It was mid-October, 2010, then and the leaves were dying on the trees in your backyard. Autumn had been beautiful that year, but beautiful or not, it was still a prelude to winter, to the death of everything. You looked down at your cigarette that was basically smoking itself.  
  
You didn’t want to admit to yourself, but for the last six minutes, you’d felt re-born.  
  
There was nothing wrong or uncomfortable about sitting in a nice restaurant in a nice hotel having a quiet dinner with him. You were used to his different moods, for lack of a better word. Or _phases_ , you thought. He goes through a lot of phases. He was certainly never boring. It was hard for you to believe that the man who was sitting across from you in some incredibly expensive, gray dress shirt was the same one who’d put on your clothes and his headphones and danced like a moron in front of the window in your loft. He was cutting his last piece of steak when you asked him,  
  
“Justin, before you came home, when we talked about it, you said something about getting tested, about being monogamous. Are you ready to do that?”  
  
He put down his glass of wine and looked at you, the maturity in his face arousing you all of a sudden, “I already did it, Brian. I did it the next day after we talked. Everything was fine. I haven’t been with—"  
  
You interrupted him, unintentionally, “So did I. I mean not the next day, but that week. I did it. Got the results. All good.”  
  
“All good, and you stopped tricking?” He had an incredulous, almost doubtful, look on his face. Didn’t offend you at all. You were ready to quit, and you did. Once you put your mind to something, that’s pretty much it.  
  
“Yeah. Gave it up. Wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be.”  
  
His mind was already working overtime, “So we’re good? You’re absolutely sure?” He drained his glass of wine. This wasn’t a scenario either of you had prepared for. You had given some thought to talking about it, maybe half a minute, if that. Hell, going on the honeymoon wasn’t planned.  
  
You started counting and re-counting in your head, checking and re-checking, your brain desperately trying to fast forward and process this new information.  
  
“Yep, yeah, we’re good to go.”  
  
His eyes anxiously scanned the dining room as he pressed his napkin back into his lap, “Where’s our waiter?”  
  
Thirty six hours and counting…  
  
*****************************  
 _at this moment  
you mean everything_  
  
You’d never felt more responsible for anything than you did for him when you opened the door to your room. The lodge staff started the fire for you shortly before you finished your dinner. You locked the door and turned off the light, allowing the flames to light the room, and walked over to him where he stood looking out the window, this view of a different side of the lodge. He pointed to someone who had fallen on the slopes and laughed. You smiled, taking his pointing hand in yours and turning him around,  
  
“This is what you want?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
“Positively sure.”  
  
He reached up to pull your face to his and you kept him pressed tightly against you, how you managed to worm your hand between the two of you and slide your hand underneath his shirt, you’ll never know, and the kiss became something needy, something that was feeding both of you, something that needed to be fed. He gasped when he felt your hand on his chest, like he’d never felt it before.  
  
You understood because it all felt new to you.  
  
So many times you’d fucked him, made love to him, but this felt like something completely different. You felt consumed with a patient, thorough desire for him, all of it, at that moment, burning just beneath your fingertips.  
  
This was never going to end if you had anything to say about it.  
  
Your hand moved slightly on his chest, your palm spread wide, and his breathing faltered, his mouth opening into yours, your tongue gentle between his lips. He licked your mouth slowly, and you let your thumb pass over his nipple, his fingers tightening in your hair as you pressed. His grip around your neck felt like only thing holding him up anymore.  
  
“Is this our honeymoon?”  
  
You laughed, “If you want it to be.”  
  
You walked him in front of the fire. He held onto the mantel, his hand in your hair, as you unbuttoned his shirt, your face pressed into his neck as you spoke to him, so quietly, “I need this so badly, to touch you. I don’t ever want to go this long without fucking you.” He was moaning softly as you spoke to him, “And it’s not about fucking. You know it’s not about that.”  
  
“I know. It’s not.”  
  
You slid his shirt off his shoulders and he started to fiddle with yours, but you shook your head, kneeling down instead and undoing his pants, letting them fall down his legs. He stepped out of them and you tossed them aside. You took off his socks as he played with your hair and then turned your attention to his underwear, running your lips over his cottony-hard-on, slipping your fingers underneath the elastic, feeling how wet he was through the soft fabric. He moaned when you finally took them off, his moist cock falling toward your face.  
  
His hand rubbed the back of your head, “Brian.”  
  
His cock was warm as you ran it along the side of your face, smooth in your hand, slick in your mouth as you wrapped your arms around him and controlled his movements for a while and then let him go, savoring the hard pull on the back of your hair right before he came, the snap on the back of your neck, how he was practically choking you, how you could barely breathe. It made you so hard, made you want to come when he did. His knees buckled into you when he pulled out and you caught him, laid him down in front of the fire, never taking your eyes off of him. It wasn’t difficult at all. There had never been anything else to look at.  
  
Not in eleven years.  
  
His skin glowed from the flames from his place on the rug in front of the fire, and he took you in his arms as you laid on top of him. His body felt like it was burning.  
  
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” his voice was a whisper.  
  
“Bend your knees for me.”  
  
You rose up and sat between his legs bent over yours, your slippery fingers pushing deep inside him. He held your other hand, running his fingers through his hair, the muscles in his legs tightening over yours as he arched his back in response to your touch. You’d never seen anything more beautiful, more wanton, more yours in your life.  
  
“I’m ready, Brian.”  
  
You were nervous.  
  
You felt like you owed him so much. Wrongs you should’ve righted. Places you should’ve been or shouldn’t have been. Things you should’ve said. And yet, he was giving you this. You didn’t deserve this, but he still wanted you to have it.  
  
You were his first love.  
  
And, oddly enough, he was yours.  
  
This must be what love feels like, you thought, as you inched inside him. He felt so fragile in your arms that night. You kept staring at his face, kept waiting for him to call the whole thing off, to tell you to stop, but he never did, so you just kept going, a weightless ecstasy taking over your body once you realized you were really inside him.  
  
You froze. You couldn’t think.  
  
This was overwhelming. You wrapped your arms around him, afraid that if you didn’t, you might not be able to hold onto this unbelievably perfect sensation that was running through your body like hot lava. You moved inside him, and his hot hands held your face as he kissed you, “Oh god, I love you, Brian. I love you so much.”  
  
“Oh my fucking god.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You’re so hot inside, so tight, you feel so, oh god, you feel so fucking amazing.”  
  
“Fuck me before you make me cry, Brian.”  
  
“Why are you gonna cry?” you asked him after you kissed him.  
  
His fingers were soft on your face, “Because you are.”  
  
Your body knew what to do and it switched to auto-pilot and did it, ignoring the chaotic misfirings going on between your heart and your brain. You felt him grab your ass, heard him whisper in your ear about not stopping or keep going or something, felt him practically shake when he came, that hot, wet clench on your dick and then you saw nothing but red.  
  
Hot, red flames pouring out of you and into him, determined to set him on fire just like you were, to make him as powerless and helpless and useless as you felt at that very minute. Determined to consume him. His hips jolted underneath you, and you grabbed him and kissed him hard, refusing to let him move.  
  
He was completely wrapped around you, had no intention of letting go. You tried to breathe.  
  
You were so honored to be dripping out of his ass, so proud. You reached into the pocket of your pants on the floor beside you and pulled out a condom. Not what you wanted; you threw it across the room. You tried again and found what you were looking for.  
  
You opened the box, took his ring out, and slid it on his finger, “You don’t get more married than this, Sunshine.”  
  
He reached for yours and returned the favor, “Here’s to never pulling out.”  
  
You kissed him, softly and for a really long time, “I love you, Justin. I love you, and I’m really glad you came home.”  
  
“I love you, too, Brian Kinney. This is one kick-ass honeymoon.”  
  
You laid back down on top of him, whispering in his ear about how nice it was just to stay in his ass as long as you wanted. He told you that you should both turn around in a few minutes so the other side of your bodies could get warm.  
  
“That’s the only downside to fucking in front of a fireplace,” he explained.  
  
“Only you would think of something like that.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“What are we gonna do with that case of condoms I bought?” he asked you.  
  
“Poker chips?”  
  
He laughed, “We could dress up as Dr. and Mrs. Kinsey and give them out at Halloween.” You both busted out laughing and your dick fell out of his ass. “Whoops. Sorry.”  
  
“Kinney. Kinsey. Not much of a stretch, is it?”  
  
“Whoa. I never thought about that. Oh my god. That is so freaky.”  
  
“You crack me up.” He got really quiet.  
  
……  
  
…...  
  
You tried to kiss him and he stopped you, “Now I’m really horny thinking about you as Dr. Kinsey.”  
  
“Okay. Tell me your entire sexual history. Don’t leave anything out.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“We need this information for research purposes. You’re a very valuable part of our study, Mr. Taylor.”  
  
“Do you conduct all of your interviews in the nude?”  
  
“As a matter of fact, I do.”  
  
“You’d be much more convincing if you had your glasses on.”  
  
“You’ll just have to pretend because I have no fucking clue where they are.”  
  
He took a deep breath, “Okay. Well, it all started this one night when I met this gorgeous guy. He was like the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“So he was all, ‘Had a busy night?’ and I was all, ‘Just checkin’ out the bars.’”  
  
“Let’s get to the good part.”  
  
“So he took me back to his place, took off all of his clothes right in front of me, offered me illegal drugs, and then poured a bottle of water on his head.”  
  
“He sounds like a highly disturbed individual. You should’ve gotten the hell out of there.”  
  
“Don’t I know it.”  
  
“But you didn’t?”  
  
“No, I totally stayed. I made a complete and utter fool out of myself. I came all over everything. He got so pissed at me. Then we went to the hospital, so I could name his baby, and then we came back.”  
  
“I don’t even believe this story. You’re making this up.”  
  
“I’m not! I swear. It’s all true.”  
  
“Please continue.”  
  
“Okay, so we came back, only then he was high as a kite, and he was all, ‘Watch me!’ Doing handstands and falling over. It was totally freaking me out because I didn’t know that much about sex, but I’d never heard of that kind of foreplay.”  
  
“It’s highly specialized.”  
  
“Well, I know that now. Now, every time I see someone do a handstand and fall over, I practically come in my pants.”  
  
“That’s an understandable reaction.”  
  
“Oh, good, I’m glad I’m not abnormal. So I kept trying to fix the furniture every time he’d knock it over, but it just became pointless, and then he wanted me to do a handstand, and I couldn’t do one.”  
  
“Reciprocal foreplay. Very common.”  
  
“I know, and I felt so guilty. So then, he was like, well can you juggle? And I couldn’t do that either. I felt so inadequate. He tried to teach me, but it’s really hard to juggle a CD, a remote control, and a lime at the same time. I sucked at it. He was very patient with me, though. He let me have a lot of tries.”  
  
“Highly disturbed, but very kind. Interesting.”  
  
“I mean he gave me way more turns than I even wanted.”  
  
“What happened next?”  
  
“Well, eventually the CD broke. I broke it. And I thought he was going to tell me to leave because I couldn’t do handstands or juggle, but then he was like, ‘Okay, let’s fuck.’ And then I really freaked out because I didn’t know how to do that either!”  
  
“Quite a dilemma.”  
  
“So he went in the bedroom and I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do, even though I really wanted to clean up the mess he’d made. It was bugging me, but whatever. And he just took his pants off and got in bed and looked at me like, ‘Let’s go.’ So, I took my clothes off and sat on the bed, but to be perfectly honest, I wanted to grab my clothes and run out of there right then, I was so nervous. I was terrified.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.” You held him tighter.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“So we were just kind of sitting beside each other, and I was just looking straight ahead, not at him, and he reached out and touched me on my arm, I think, and I turned and looked at him, and he kind of slid his arm across my chest and said, ‘Lie down.’ So I did.” You ran your fingers down the side of his face. “And then he kissed me and told me to roll over, and my heart was beating so fast by that time that I was afraid I wouldn’t hear anything else he was saying to me.”  
  
You kissed the side of his face, “Keep going.”  
  
“And then the next thing I knew, I felt him on top of me, and he was hard, and I’d never felt anything like that before. He said something to me about my body and pressed against me, and all I could do was swallow and think, ‘I’m making him hard.’ That’s all I could think. And then he started kissing my shoulders and then I felt something move down my back and I thought, ‘That’s his tongue.’ And then I realized where it was going, and I really wanted to run out of there as fast as I could.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I didn’t know what you were going to do. You didn’t tell me.”  
  
“But you liked it.”  
  
“I was afraid not to like it. You loved it. I could tell. You were licking me and saying things to me that I could barely understand, except that you were going to fuck me. I heard you say that.”  
  
“You were very delicious. You told me to stop. That you were going to come.”  
  
“I didn’t want you to get pissed at me again.”  
  
You smiled at him, “I wouldn’t have gotten pissed at you.”  
  
“And then you rolled me over, and you were on top of me, and I looked at your face, and I fell in love with you,” he looked embarrassed.  
  
“That’s so sweet.”  
  
“I did. It’s stupid, I know, but there was something about the way you were looking at me and the way you were touching me, and it just happened. Like that.”  
  
“And then I fucked you.”  
  
“And then you fucked me. And I wasn’t nervous anymore. I mean, it was weird. It was my first time; I’d never felt anything like that before, but it was amazing. It felt like everything that I’d ever thought that sex was multiplied by a hundred thousand, and the look on your face when you were inside me. God, I thought, while it was happening, that you loved me, too. The look on your face when you came; I’ll never forget it. You were so beautiful, and you wanted _me_. You made me feel like the sexiest, most beautiful person in the world that night.”  
  
“It was mutual. You were sending me to the moon and back.”  
  
“I was?”  
  
“Yeah. I told Michael the next day that you almost wore me out.”  
  
“No wonder he hated my guts for so long.”  
  
You laughed, “Yeah, that probably didn’t help. I probably shouldn’t have told him that.”  
  
“Hard to believe we went from that to this, isn’t it?” He motioned to the room, the fireplace, the rug, his hand returning to your back.  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t run out that night, Mr. Taylor, even though according to our research, that guy's a total wack job."  
  
“I'll do anything in the name of science, Dr. Kinney......especially if you wear your glasses.”  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Outkast’s _Hey Ya!_ , Thomas Dolby’s _She Blinded Me with Science_ , The Go Gos _Vacation_ , Neil Diamond's _I'm a Believer_ , Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s _Come on Eileen_.


	6. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 3-Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/3/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 3-OPPORTUNITIES  
  
BRIAN'S POV**  
 _a bottle of red,  
a bottle of white,  
it all depends upon your appetite_  
  
It'd been a hot, humid, summer day four and half years ago when you'd decided that the only place you were going to find the man you needed was in New York City. Mama Zirrolli's wasn't the classiest Italian restaurant in the city by any means, not nearly elegant enough for your taste. But you weren't there for the ambiance; you were there to find him.  
  
His resume had come in with every other Business major's resume along the east coast along with a cover letter and a photo. He sent a photo. You thought that was odd and brave at the same time. Every time you looked at it, all you could think of was JFK, Jr. You decided that if you looked like John Jr., you'd send your photo to everyone, too. And he had the whitest teeth you'd ever seen. Your eyes kept coming back to his picture, his resume, every time you sat down to review your options. Finally, thinking you were losing your mind and getting tired of him staring back at you, you gave the whole stack to Ted and told him to pick out his top ten.  
  
This guy wasn't one of them.  
  
You hadn't given Ted the photo.  
  
You interviewed seven of Ted's top ten and nothing was clicking for you. They were all great candidates, had great credentials, but they weren't exactly what you needed. After the seventh felt like another lukewarm letdown, you added JFK, Jr. to the list as number eleven and had Cynthia call him to set up an interview. He would be in your office in the following Monday.  
  
You went to New York City the next day. The first time you'd gone since Justin left.  
  
The minute you got into the cab at the airport, the buzz of the city overtook you. You used to feel like that buzz was _you_ , what you were going to be, but it didn't feel like that that day. It felt like something you longed for. Something you'd always long for.  
  
You recognized him the minute you walked into the door of Mama Zirrolli's. He looked just like his picture. You figured he was about twenty-eight.  
  
" _Table for one, sir?"  
  
"Yes."_ You asked to sit in the back. It gave you a better view.  
  
" _Your server will be right with you."  
  
"Thank you.”_  
  
You watched him while you ate your salad, watched him greet customers, watched him help out the wait staff when the place began to fill up, watched him answer the phone, work people in, schmooze with everyone who came in the door—from elite businessmen to mothers with screaming toddlers. And he did all of this with his sleeves rolled up, the true sign of a work-a-holic. He never stopped moving. And the lasagna was fucking amazing.  
  
He noticed when you were nearly finished with your meal and came over to see if you wanted dessert. People waved to him through the window that you were sitting in front of. He smiled and waved back.  
  
" _Sir, can I get you anything else? Coffee, perhaps?"  
  
"You're Gabe Zirrolli, aren't you?"_ He gave you a funny smile. It took you a minute to realize that everyone knew who he was. It was a dumb question in retrospect. Of course, he was Gabe Zirrolli.  
  
" _Yes, I am. Was everything satisfactory?"_ He told you a year later that he thought you were a food critic.  
  
" _It was delicious. Damn near perfect."_ You handed him your business card. " _I'm Brian Kinney."_ It took him a second to make the connection.  
  
" _Oh my goodness, I didn't know. I'm interviewing with you next Monday. I just got my e-ticket from your assistant today."  
  
"This was your interview. The job is yours if you want it. Do you have a few minutes to schmooze with  me?"  
  
"Oh my god, absolutely. Let me go tell my father so he can come out here and cover for me."  
  
"Certainly."_  
  
You talked with Gabe for about half an hour, offered him a relocation package to come to Pittsburgh, talked about where he got his business degree, and then asked him why in the world he wanted to leave this, his family's restaurant that he was obviously born to run, and the hubbub of the city.  
  
" _I've literally been working here all my life. I want to make it on my own, branch out a little. I've always wanted to manage my own restaurant, and I can't open one in the city and compete with my family. My parents have worked too hard for this. I couldn't…..I wouldn't do that to them. There'll be plenty of time for me to run this place when I'm an old man. But I'm not right now, and I want a chance to prove myself to someone other than my father."  
  
"Fair enough. You can prove yourself to me. I'd like you to be settled in thirty days or less. Zeal opens in two months. That'll give you a month there before it opens."  
  
"I just can't believe this. That you just showed up here. I was still stressing over what I was going to wear."_ To this day, Gabe's neurotic tendencies make you laugh. He's worse than Theodore.  
  
" _You're what I want. You have the perfect disposition to keep paying customers happy."  
  
"I guess it's in my blood. Customer service and all that."  
  
"Okay, well, I'll see you in a month. Call my assistant for help with relocating, whatever you need. She can help you."  
  
"Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Kinney—"  
  
“Brian.”  
  
“Brian. I look forward to working with you."  
  
"Same here."_  
  
Gabe introduced you to his parents before you left. His mother told you that she just knew that it was Gabe's lucky day when she woke up that morning. You knew you'd made the right decision. He was the one you wanted. Someone who looked the part, had the experience and education, and who was more loyal than a Golden Retriever.  
  
You'd secured your fortune that day in the city, and a month later, when Gabe arrived, he hit the ground running.  
  
The sun beat down on you as you stood outside of Mama Zirrolli's after that meeting, as you watched the myriad of pedestrians negotiate their way on the busy streets. You stood still and weighed your options.  
  
One down. One to go.  
  
But first, you had some negotiating of your own to do.  
  
**************************  
 _I realize it's just a picture in a frame_  
  
The name of the gallery was shoved in your wallet on a post-it note: _Frequency_. It was less than two blocks from Mama Zirrolli’s. You’ll never forget your visit there because of the way you were greeted when you walked in the door,  
  
“ _Good afternoon, sir. Please excuse the heat. Our air-conditioning is broken.”_ A very petite, brown-haired woman in her early thirties stood in the foyer. Her eyeglass frames matched her hair color perfectly.  
  
“ _Well, it’s certainly a bad day for that.”  
  
“That’s very true. My name’s Margy. What can I do for you?”_ Her name had a hard ‘g.’ She spelled it for you when you looked perplexed.  
  
“ _Margy. M-A-R-G-Y. Margaret’s too formal, but my parents gave me that nickname. I’m not responsible for it.”_  
  
You smiled, “ _You don’t want to know the nicknames my parents have for me.”  
  
“Oh, so you’re charming. How refreshing on such a hot day.”_  
  
Your eyebrow went up before you could stop it, “ _Was that sarcasm?”  
  
“Quite possibly. Or I might just be flirting. I never really know until I see how things turn out.”_ Her mischievous smile lit up her face. “ _But you didn’t come in here to be hit on by me, or at least, I highly doubt it, so what can I do for you?”_  
  
You pointed to a small painting hanging on the wall, “ _I called the other day. I think I spoke to someone else. I’m interested in buying that painting.”  
  
“That painting?”_ She walked over to it and studied it for a second. “ _I’m sorry, but it’s already been sold.”_ You knew that, thought you’d take your chances anyway.  
  
“ _How much did it sell for?”_ She walked behind a counter and pulled out a book, her finger running down the page until she found what she wanted.  
  
“ _Seventeen hundred and fifty dollars.”  
  
“I’ll give you two thousand.”  
  
“You want to give me two thousand dollars for a painting that’s already been sold?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I can’t do that.”  
  
“Can’t or won’t?”  
  
“I won’t, I guess.”  
  
“I’ll give you twenty-five hundred. Two thousand for the painting and five hundred for your trouble.”  
  
“My trouble?”  
  
“Your crisis of conscience.”_ She eyed you up and down, probably wondering if you were good for the money. “ _In cash.”  
  
“Right now?”  
  
“Right now.”_ She erased something on the page she was holding hostage with her finger and looked right at you.  
  
“ _I suppose everyone makes mistakes.”_ She took the cash out of your offered hand and wrote you a receipt for two thousand dollars. “ _This is the most intimate thing you and I will ever do, isn’t it?”_  
  
You rolled your lips in as you wrote the address for Kinnetik on a piece of paper for and handed it to her, “ _I’m afraid so, but rest assured, it was good for me.”_  
  
She blushed and looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, “ _Well, Mr. Kinney, you certainly know how to treat a lady.”_ Her facetiousness, though over the top, was impressive.  
  
“ _Takes practice.”  
  
“And I’m sure you’ve had plenty.”  
  
“Less than you could ever imagine, trust me. I’m just a quick study.”_ She walked you to the door.  
  
“ _Well, thank you for your business……and for somehow making it unbearably hotter in here.”  
  
“My pleasure. The painting will be delivered by the end of this week?”  
  
“Yes, and now, I have to go call the gentleman who purchased this painting the first time, and tell him how horribly I fucked up. And I know him. He won’t take it well. He’s a bit uptight.”_ Her voice went up at the end of the sentence as she held the door open for you.  
  
“ _Well, thank you again, Margy, and have a good day.”  
  
“You do the same, although you didn’t have to say my name. Now, I’ll be in a puddle before you even get halfway down the street.”  
  
“That’s one way to stay cool, huh?”  
  
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kinney, and enjoy your art.”  
  
“I will.”_  
  
**************************  
 _Rikki, don't lose that number  
it's the only one you've got_  
  
A block away from the gallery, you stopped staring at your cell phone and actually used it. You called Justin and got his voice mail.  
  
" _Hey. I'm in town on business. Last minute thing. Thought maybe I could see you—"_ He was beeping back in as you were leaving the message.  
  
" _Brian?"  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Something wrong? What's up?"  
  
"I'm in town. I'm here. On business. Last minute thing."  
  
"Oh…. Whoa."  
  
"I'm done. For the day."_ It was one fifteen.  
  
There was an awkward silence before he spoke again, _"I'm actually at a coffee shop. Can you catch a cab?"  
  
"Sure."_ He gave you the address. You wrote it on your hand. " _I'll be there in a few minutes."  
  
"Okay. Great."_ His voice sounded tentative, like he didn’t really think you were there, like you might have been playing a joke on him.  
  
**************************  
 _must be the clouds in my eyes_  
  
The bell on the door of the coffee shop rang loudly as you opened it, your body grateful for the blast of ice cold air-conditioning. Your sunglasses fogged up as you saw him, almost a blond blur toward the back. The five or six patrons in the restaurant glanced up when you walked past them and then looked down again. You tucked your shades in your shirt pocket and smiled as you sat down. He smiled back, closing his sketchbook. A waitress came over and poured coffee for you that you didn't want. You didn't stop her.  
  
He spoke first, " _This is a surprise."  
  
"It's good to see you."_ It was so good to see him.  
  
" _Have you eaten?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Oh, well, I'm just hanging out here. My roommate's fucking her boyfriend in our place."  
  
"Oh….. well, I didn't know I was coming. Last minute thing."  
  
"Yeah, you said that on the phone."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
"You doing okay?"  
  
"Great."_ You didn't quite believe him. " _I like it here. Keeps me inspired, you know?"_ He glanced around the coffee shop. You got the feeling he spent a lot of time there.  
  
" _Right. That's good."_  
  
……  
……  
  
" _Are you staying somewhere?"_ He sounded like he wanted the answer to be, 'yes.'  
  
" _Just here for the day. I fly back tonight, early evening."  
  
"Oh."_ He sipped his coffee. His eyelashes looked longer. " _Well, you look really nice."_ The compliment felt good. You returned it.  
  
" _So do you."_ He laughed a little like he didn't believe you, his cargo pants and t-shirt no match for your designer label.  
  
It got quiet again after that, and you drummed your fingers on the table, pretended to look around the coffee shop, to read the menu over the counter.  
  
 _This place sells a lot of pastries,_ you thought.  
  
Your eyes moved back to him, and he was looking at you. They met and he looked away, out the window, running his hand through the back of his hair. You raised your arm pretending to look at your watch, and his eyes returned to yours.  
  
" _I could stay somewhere for a while. If you want."_ His smile seemed almost grateful as he put his sketch pad and his cell phone in his bag.  
  
" _Okay, we could take a walk or something."_  
  
" _Okay._ " You stood up. He stood up, throwing ten dollars on the table. You motioned for him to walk in front of you, and you both stepped out onto the sidewalk. When you touched him, the small of his back felt exactly the same, but your hand didn't linger.  
  
 _Which way do you want to go?"_ he asked, looking at you, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.  
  
" _You lead."_ The two of you walked in silence for about half a block until he stopped at the entrance of a nice hotel.  
  
He turned to face you, " _This okay?"  
  
"Sure."_ You opened the door for him, getting the second blast of cold air you'd had in fifteen minutes, the sweat on your skin cooling immediately. He looked around and then sat on a gold-colored sofa near the front desk. Your hand rested on his shoulder for a brief second, " _I'll be right back."_  
  
The elevator ride was quiet, stopping on the seventh floor, and you motioned for him to step off. He did, looking back at you as you pointed the way, " _Right here. It's this one."_  
  
**************************  
 _and she'll wrap herself around you like a well-worn tire_  
  
The room was as cold as the lobby and the hallway, so you walked over to the vent under the window and backed the air conditioning off a little, your eyes following him as he put his bag on a chair. You walked over and stood in front of him, putting your hands on his wrists as he reached to put his arms around your neck, holding onto them for a few seconds, thinking that you should say something, but you couldn't think of anything, so you didn't.  
  
You kissed him with your eyes wide open.  
  
" _I miss you."_  
  
You felt like he was talking to his fingers, and you stood still as he loosened your tie and unbuttoned your shirt, gently tugging the fabric out of your pants. His lips felt soft and open on your chest, your body almost tingling as they brushed over your skin. He sucked your nipple into his mouth and you moaned, pressing his head against you, and held him, standing there frozen in time, until you felt his hands undoing your belt, unzipping your zipper.  
  
His hand slipped inside your underwear, and you squeezed his shoulders, feeling like you were about to lift him off the floor. His palm was warm as it slid down your cock, as you pushed into it. He rubbed you softly as he sucked, his fingers skimming over your slit, as you tightened your hands around his arms.  
  
It was a matter of seconds before you came in his hand. Raising his chin with your finger, you leaned down and kissed him, your hand cradling the side of his face. He slid his other hand inside your underwear and pushed them down, undressing you completely. You reached between you, undoing his pants with one hand, and he kicked them off and laid back on the bed, welcoming you as you lowered your body to his. You felt him spread his legs, felt him want you as you laid on top of him, felt like lust had never been so heavy.  
  
It was going to crush him.  
  
In a way, it was like this moment had already happened, that you were really just daydreaming, because it was exactly how you thought it would be, because you'd imagined it in your mind since the day he left. Imagined him winding his fingers in your hair just like he was doing right then, imagined the sounds he'd make as you kissed him, the way he'd arch his body for you when you slid your hand between his legs.  
  
And this was it. This was perfect. You wanted to be wanted.  
  
It was strange and familiar at the same time, the way his hands moved over your body, the way they knew you so well when you didn't really feel like you knew him at all.  
  
Not anymore.  
  
And it was so unfair to want this so badly, to have to have it, to need this like it was essential for your survival. But it was. And somewhere inside you it felt like a favor he was doing for you, like a sacrifice.  
  
But your body wouldn’t let you care.  
  
He released your hair, letting it slide through his fingers, as you roamed down his body, your hands looping underneath his legs.  
  
" _Brian._ " It was a whisper. It was your face running down the inside of his thigh. It was your mouth on his skin.  
  
You felt his other leg along your back, holding you, using you for leverage as he lifted his hips for you, drowning in his urgent need to press against your face.  
  
He smelled so ready.  
  
You'd missed that smell, the smell of you about to fuck him. He moaned as you pushed your palms up the back of his thighs, lifting his balls into your mouth. Your mouth was greedy on him, soaking his balls, running up and down his cock, and then you pushed again and he held his legs up for you as you started to rim him. He knew what you wanted.  
  
You licked him slowly, your thumbs parting his ass, savoring the squeeze on your tongue as you pressed it inside him, generously wetting him as he softly said your name.  
  
He begged eventually, quietly, " _Just fuck me. Please fuck me,"_ panting on the bedspread as you put the condom on, stroking himself, until you pushed inside him all at once.  
  
His body jerked underneath you, the moist skin between his legs suctioning against you as you moved inside him. " _Keep them spread, just like that,"_ you told him as you fucked him, unrestrained, your hard breath against his ear, " _Just like that."_  
  
He wrapped his arms around you and hugged you, combing your hair with his fingernails, trying to lock his legs around you as you put your hand on his inner thigh and pushed them back apart, _"I'm going to come, please."  
  
"Come like this."_ His feet slipped on the bedspread, and he scrambled to plant them again, pulling your hair as your thrusts quickened. You felt his hand slip between the two of you. He pressed his cock hard against your stomach and arched into you, his body shaking in your hands.  
  
" _Brian, please. Help me."_  
  
He was struggling to get his shirt off before he came. You gave it a hard yank and pulled it over his head, letting him cling to you when he started to come, fucking him harder as you felt his body trembling underneath you, the warmth of his come sealing you together.  
  
And then he kissed you as you came, his eyes dark and intense as you looked at him, and then you collapsed over his shoulder, the hotel smell of the bedspread filling your nose. His lips were sweet and wet on the side of your face as he held you, his voice in your ear,  
  
" _Did you wear that suit on purpose?"_  
  
You couldn't for the life of you remember what suit you'd worn that day. You felt like you came here naked, just like this, like you'd never been anywhere but here.  
  
" _No. Why?"  
  
"It's just that it's the first suit I ever saw you in."_  
  
**************************  
 _there was a time  
I was everything and nothing all in one_  
  
He invited you under the covers in silence, pulling them back for you, lying on the white sheets. You laid beside him, pulling the sheets over both of you and held him, kissing him softly, kissing him everywhere, your hands moving over his warm, smooth body until he said he had to go,  
  
" _I'm sorry. I have to be somewhere."_ You released him.  
  
 _"It's okay."_  
  
You watched him get dressed, unable to participate.  
  
" _I didn't know you were coming, or I would've--"  
  
"It's okay. It was just a last minute thing."_  
  
He knew you weren't coming downstairs with him when he kissed you good-bye.  
  
You laid there until you had to go to the airport, replaying the last few hours in your head over and over. The last time you'd fucked him, he was hours from boarding a plane, and now, you were.  
  
When you got in the cab, you checked your messages. Gabe Zirrolli had formally accepted your offer.  
  
You left New York that day thinking Justin never would. You left knowing you'd been right all along:  
  
One down.  
  
One to go.  
  
You glanced at your palm as the cabbie swerved in and out of traffic. The address of the coffee shop had nearly faded away.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Billy Joel's _Scenes from an Italian Restaurant_ , Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s _Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing Baby_ , Steely Dan's _Rikki Don't Lose that Number,_ Elton John's _Daniel, Island Girl,_ and _Something About the Way You Look Tonight._


	7. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 4-Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/11/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 4-SECURITY  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _we got to install microwave ovens,  
custom kitchen deliveries,  
we got to move these refrigerators,  
we got to move these color TV's_  
  
Zeek Zirrolli patrolled the streets of New York City looking for work like a homeless man looks for food. The day you met him, he handed you a business card that looked like it’d been through the washing machine.  
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
You looked at him like he was a moron.  
  
“ _This_ is your business card?”  
  
“Yes, sir.” He was proud of it.  
  
“Don’t you have a new one? One that doesn’t look like a dog ate it?”  
  
“No, sir. Not on me. I recycle ‘em. Saves me money.”  
  
If it wasn’t for the fact that he was Gabe’s older brother and you were in a desperate situation, you would have given it back to him and told him to come back when he had a fresh one. But you couldn’t. You were between the proverbial rock and hard place.  
  
So when the electrical system at Babylon proved to be no match for a bomb that had gone off almost two years ago, you were sufficiently impressed when Gabe wielded his cell phone on his second day of work and called his brother. Luckily, Zeek was just across town, unpacking and installing shelves for his little brother.  
  
“Babycakes tells me that you need an electrician,” he told you after he gave you his raggedy business card.  
  
“Babycakes?” Gabe looked like he wanted to crawl under your conference room table.  
  
“Yeah, Babycakes. You know, my baby brother, here.” He pointed to Gabe at the table, who was turning eight shades of red at that very moment.  
  
Gabe looked close to death, “Zeek, do you mind?”  
  
Zeek reminded you of the Professor, only with rocks in his head instead of brains. You studied him for a minute or so, looked at his hands, rough, dirty, and callused, and decided he had a Gilligan-simplicity about him. That he was probably harmless. That he was one of those guys that constantly wore black t-shirts reading ‘SECURITY,’ even when he wasn’t securing anything. You imagined him having an entire closet full of them.  
  
It wasn’t your imagination.  
  
And Zeek had never met a stranger.  
  
He fixed your problem at Babylon that day, and almost three thousand dollars later you had an upgraded electrical system that according to Zeek, “Based on my load calculations, you still have plenty of space in that box to add more shit. You’re set, man. You. Are. Set.”  
  
“Load calculations? You can do math?” you inquired as you surveyed the finished product, albeit with no idea what you were supposed to be looking at. You flipped the switch and everything worked. That was about as far as your electrical knowledge was taking you.  
  
“Nah, I can’t do math, man, but my calculator can.” He shook it in your face. “ _Kmart_ , man. Nine ninety-five. On sale. Nine-ninety five.”  
  
When the lights were back on and the boys of Liberty Avenue were drinking and sinking into one another again, you wrote Zeek a check for three thousand nine dollars and ninety-five cents to cover the cost of his calculator and gave him a box of brand new, re-designed business cards that were all clean.  
  
“Here, Popeye. Here’s a check and a little something for your trouble.” He opened the box and seemed amazed. Apparently he’d never actually seen business cards in a box before.  
  
“I just print ‘em out on my printer, but it jams all the time, my printer, so this is real cool, man.”  
  
“Please throw away the old ones. A man with a dingy business card is unrefined and pathetic.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Boss Man. Whatever you say.”  
  
“And you can stop repeating yourself at the end of every sentence. It’s highly annoying.”  
  
“I’ll work on it, Boss Man. I’ll work on it.” You realized right then that you can lead a horse to water, but he’s still gonna tell you about it three times.  
  
*********************  
 _oh, that ain't workin'  
that's the way you do it,  
get your money for nothin'  
get your chicks for free_  
  
Over the years, Zeek’s bounced for you, fixed electrical nightmares, unpacked and installed equipment, tended bar, and wired the security system at your humble abode, The Palace. He’s moved more furniture than _Ethan Allen’s Labor Day Sale._ Hell, the loft elevator broke one day, and Zeek had it fixed before any other technician could get his ass over there. And you were both high as kites at the time. You sat in the hallway eating Fritos, drinking tequila, smoking weed, and handing him tools when he asked for them.  You know more about small hand tools now than you ever wanted to know—powered and otherwise. You were content with your dildos, beads, cock rings, screwdriver, and a hammer. And lube. Lubricant was a tool as far as you were concerned.  By the time he’d gotten the elevator running again, you were out of pot. Zeek offered to score some for you that weekend when he was back in the city. You took him up on his offer, “I want good shit, Zeek. Not crap.”  
  
“Don’t you worry, Boss Man. I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry.”  
  
You figured if Zeek ever got busted buying drugs for you, they’d never be able to get back to you because you were pretty sure Zeek didn’t even know your real name. You were ‘Boss Man’ the day he met you, and you figured you’d be ‘Boss Man’ until you died.  
  
Fine with you. You’d certainly been called worse.  
  
He told you the story of why he calls Gabe ‘Babycakes’ while he was testing the elevator, watching it go up and down. Zeek’s very easy to entertain. “When Gabe was a baby, he thought that ‘Pattycake’ song was ‘Babycake,’ and he sang it every fucking minute. ‘Babycake, babycake-“  
  
“Maybe he just didn’t know anyone named ‘Patty,’” You fell over on your side laughing. Zeek told you to lay off the tequila because that joke wasn’t even funny, it was just—  
  
“Pathetic?”  
  
“Yeah, man, pathetic. That’s like your favorite word. Everything with you is ‘pathetic this,' and 'pathetic that.’”  
  
“Whoa, that’s really pathetic. My obsession with the word ‘pathetic.’”  
  
“Dude, you’re stoned out of your fucking mind.”  
  
“No, not ‘dude.’ ‘Boss Man.’”  
  
“All right, ‘Boss Man,’ you’re stoned out of your fucking mind.”  
  
“Oh my god, I’m so pathetic.” You were laying on the floor in the doorway with your legs inside the loft and your upper body in the hall.  
  
“And you say _I_ repeat myself?”  
  
“Hey, if you slam this door real hard right now, you’ll slice me in two pieces, like a magician.” He stood up, rolling his eyes at you, and dragged you by your legs back into your loft.  
  
“Dude, you’re fucked up.”  
  
“’Boss Man.’ _’Boss Man_.’”  
  
“I’m gonna leave now, and I’m gonna shut this door. Don’t drive home. Just sleep here tonight. Want me to cart your ass to the bed, or can you handle it?”  
  
“I can _handle_ it. I can handle everything, but, Zeek, I hafta tell you something: I seriously _am_ that pathetic,” you said to him as he was putting on his jacket, shaking his head at you.  
  
“Nah, man. You’re not pathetic. You’re just lonely.”  
  
“I’m just lonely,” you repeated back to him. “Very. Fucking. Lonely.”  
  
“Night, Boss Man.” He put the tequila out of your reach. “I’ll see you in a week or so or when something else breaks.”  
  
“God, if anything else breaks, that’ll be so _pathetic._ ”  
  
“Take it easy, Boss Man. Take it easy,” he said to you as he stepped over you and walked out the door.  
  
You fell asleep right where he left you, sprawled on your hardwood floor wearing an extra-large t-shirt that said: ‘SECURITY.’  
  
*********************  
 _not a present for your friends to open_  
  
The half-melted, filthy snow and ice crunched under your black boots as you made your way from your parking space into the loft on December 24, 2006. You’d spent that afternoon, after working the majority of the day, relaxing and surfing the net for your own personal Christmas present. When you opened the door to your loft, you realized that Santa had already come. There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on the bar with a bow and note:  
  
 _Brian,  
I was hoping I’d get to see you, but I guess it’s not timing out right.  
I’m leaving town in a couple of hours, spending Christmas with friends  
in Key West, if you can believe that. Anyway, I wanted to give you this.  
Please give Gus and Jenny a hug for me. And Mel and Lindz.  
  
Merry Christmas,  
Justin_  
  
When you opened the note a check fell out and floated to the floor. You picked it up and stared at it. Five hundred dollars. The memo on the check said, _to pay you back, it’s a start._  
  
You didn’t want his money. You thought about tearing it up but then decided not to.  
  
You didn’t even know why you were there, at the loft, except that you did. The festive Christmas décor at the house wasn’t for you; it was for Gus. You figured you should stay away from it, or it wouldn’t stand a chance of still being around whenever he arrived the next morning. So you hired someone to make the place merry and left for the entire month of December, living at the loft until the elves were coming after Christmas to get rid of everything. Your neighbors left cards in your doorway complimenting you on the yuletide splendor you’d created for the neighborhood.  
  
You threw them in the fireplace.  
  
The cards.  
  
Not your neighbors.  
  
It was your second Christmas without Justin. Seemed ridiculous to think of a Christmas without him considering you’d never thought of a Christmas _with_ him, but it was snowing and you were standing in front of the window at nine thirty that evening smoking and laughing to yourself as the trick you were about to fuck talked to his sister on his cell phone.  
  
Rudy.  
  
His name was Rudolph, and you were going to fuck him on Christmas Eve. That and his unrelentingly, hot, holiday ass seemed to be a perfect match for your freshly lit cigarette. The self-pity mixed with a little whiskey made it feel like every other Christmas you could ever remember. You didn’t know why you let him tell you his name.  
  
Rudy was full of holiday spirit and your cock when you bent him over a table and taught him the difference between naughty and nice. It didn’t take him long to realize which one you were. He was smarter than most. Probably why he’d been chosen to guide Santa’s sleigh.  
  
You’d seen him around Babylon lately, dropping less-than-subtle hints about wanting to be one of the million your dick had served. It’d become a rite of passage for these club kids of late, to be chosen by you. Made you feel like a head of a fraternity that, as the 'brothers' got to know, wouldn’t have you as a member.  
  
Because it wasn’t a matter of give and take with you. It was, quite simply, a matter of take.  
  
Rudy was putting his jeans back on and insisted upon chatting you up, “You know, there’s a contest going on among us: ‘See how long Kinney will let you remain in his presence after he’s fucked you.’”  
  
“That’s a ridiculous name for a contest. What’s the prize?”  
  
“Don’t know. Notoriety, I guess. I hear the record so far is twelve minutes. We’ll, since July, anyway. We start over every six months.”  
  
“How sporting of you. How much longer would you have to be in my face to make twelve minutes, thirty seconds?”  
  
“A little under seven minutes.”  
  
“Well, stop talking, and you can break the record.”  
  
Rudy sat down on your sofa and looked at his watch. You poured yourself another shot of Johnnie Walker and drank it, the bottle dangling from your hand as you made your way to your bedroom. You cast a glance back over your shoulder, “ _Merry Christmas, Rudolph. Guess you always were Santa’s favorite.”_  
  
*********************  
 _you’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white,  
but I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas_  
  
You heard the door of the loft close and rolled over to stare out the window, your hand wandering between your legs. You felt yourself, still hard for him, Justin, not the misfit boy, and told yourself that you wouldn’t do this. Promised yourself as the whiskey burned through your body that you wouldn’t lay here, a victim of your own impending intoxication, and imagine him. Naked, tight, and so, so warm.  
  
But you were lying to yourself and you knew it.  
  
 _It’s only a lie if they make you lie._  
  
He was making you lie, haunting you. Ghost of Whiskey-bearing, Note-Leaving, Blond Boy Past.  
  
You stared at the gift he brought, your eyes fixating on the label:  
  


_The Rarest Blend_

  
_Johnnie Walker Blue Label is our rarest blend. This isn’t a whiskey for beginners. It’s challenging and an acquired taste, but like the finest rewards in life is worth it.  Blue Label is made from a few exceptional whiskies with powerful flavours. Each bottle is precious to us and individually numbered. Each contains a rare taste and gives an intense experience. _  
  
_Each bottle is precious to us and individually numbered._  
  
Felt odd and slightly lesbianic to be empathizing with a bottle of whiskey.  
  
 _Each contains a rare taste and gives an intense experience._  
  
But it wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last.  
  
You screwed the lid back on and laid the bottle on his pillow, eyeing the way the amber liquid settled until your eyes finally closed.  
  
 _And to all a good night..._  
  
*********************  
 _goodbye stranger it's been nice  
hope you find your paradise_  
  
 _He made it here. He got here. All by himself. Without you.  
  
You don’t know how.  
  
You don’t know how he doesn’t need you.  
  
He runs toward you on the beach, on this beautiful beach, excited, like a small child. He’s so tan.  
  
So naked.  
  
Just like you. Naked. Only you’re pale.  
  
You’ve never seen the sun.  
  
“Brian!” You reach out and touch him, his skin so hot. No response to your touch. “You’re here!”  
  
“I’m here.”  
  
“I’m so glad!” He’s so glad.  
  
He runs toward the water, the sand flying under his feet.  
  
“Justin! WAIT!”  
  
Waves over his shoulder, without looking back, wants you to follow him, to run. So you run on the burning sand, catching up to him at the water’s edge. There are people all over this beach, not nude like the two of you. They see you, but they don’t. You grab his arm when you catch up to him, the salt water lapping at his feet. There’s a beautiful, light layer of sand covering his body now. Something you’ve never seen before.  
  
You pant, out of breath, “Wait. Wait.” He smiles, not really at you. Never really looks at you. But there are things he needs to see.  
  
“Why are you here?” you demand of him.  
  
He laughs and does a little dance.  
  
“’Cause I won the bet!” Another little dance, his feet in the wet sand.  
  
“No, you didn’t.”  
  
“Yes, I did!” So happy, so giddy. His eyes travel down your naked body and back up again, doesn’t phase him.  
  
“ No, you didn’t.” You got that guy first. Plain and simple. Fair and square. Got cancer to prove it. He splashes his feet in the warm, shallow water.  
  
“Yes, I did!” He’s not mad, just positive that he’s right, happy as a clam on the shores of fucking Ibiza? Happy and pissing you off. You try to grab him again to get his attention but it’s like he’s too slippery.  
  
“Justin, you did not win that fucking bet. I did, and you know it.”  
  
“Ha! Wrong bet!” He runs several feet away from you, squats down and starts digging for something in the sand. You walk over to him and kick at him with your bare feet. He falls back on his ass and looks up at you. “I don’t want sand in my ass, Brian.”  
  
Not so happy now.  
  
“Whatever. What bet?” He lies on his back and starts making a sand angel, like there’s even such a thing as a ‘sand angel.’ You kick his calf when it comes in your direction. “What? Fucking? Bet?” He stops his naked, horizontal jumping jacks and looks right at you, a self-satisfied smile on his face.  
  
“The first night I met you, I bet myself that you’d fall in love me,” he starts right back flapping his arms again, “and then that you’d take me on an all-expense paid trip to the holiday destination of my dreams!”  
  
Your nostrils flare, “I didn’t take you here.”  
  
He smiles at an airplane flying by, “I know. One out of two’s not bad.”  
  
Midnight on the beach.  
  
Strings of sparkly lights everywhere. Attached to nothing.  
  
He nudges you with his foot, “Hey, you’re hard.” You look down, and he’s right, you are.  
  
And you’re jerking off right over him.  
  
“Come all over me!” He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, his toes wiggling in anticipation.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
He nods, drumming his fingers on the top of your foot., “Yeah, just take it easy.” You look around and don’t see anybody watching you, close your eyes and stroke, feeling how good it feels to be about to come, that just-about-to-burst sensation inside of you, his fingers tapping on your toes. It comes out of you, warm, white stripes, fast, but taking forever, the wind and the water beating against you.  
  
Sand scraping your skin.  
  
You open your eyes, completely spent, the sand perfectly smooth in front of you. And you know he was never there._  
  
************************  
 _get out of my dreams  
get into my car_  
  
 _"Happy Holidays, Mr. Kinney. Today is Monday, December 25, 2006. The time is seven eleven a.m. The current temperature is forty-two degrees. Road advisories have been issued for your area due to snow accumulation. Please use caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.”  
  
“HOME.”  
  
“Home is entered as your destination. Thank you.”  
  
“NATIONAL.”  
  
“Well, Moms and Dads, I hope you’ve gotten all of your holiday shopping done because today is judgemen-"  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
“You have one new message—"  
  
“PLAY.”  
  
“Today. Twelve thirteen a.m. Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed you yesterday. I was in a rush. I hope you got the present I left you….and the check. It’s really warm down here. I’ve never been in a warm climate for Christmas. It’s kind of weird…….Well, I just wanted to call and wish you Merry Christmas…. I hope Gus and Jenny like the t-shirts I sent them. I know it’s not very original to send ‘I LOVE NEW YORK’ shirts, but I didn’t really know what to get them…..Guess I feel like I don’t really know them anymore…..Anyway, have a good holiday and take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you soon……….I can’t believe this thing let me talk this long. I thought it used to cut me off…… Okay, well, I guess I should go. You probably wish I shut up a long time ago. Bye.”  
  
“ARCHIVE.”_  
  
  
Lyrics from Dire Straits _Money for Nothing,_ Elton John’s _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,_ Elvis Presley’s _Blue Christmas,_ Supertramp’s _Goodbye Stranger,_ and Billy Ocean’s _Carribean Queen._ Description of _Johnnie Walker Blue Label_ is copyrighted. No infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work of fiction.


	8. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 5-Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/21/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 5-INSPIRATION  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _on the first part of the journey I was looking at all the life_  
  
The streets of New York City pulsed under your sneakers as you made your way through the swarm of people determined to push you out of their way. On any other day during the almost four months you’d been living in this melting pot, you wouldn’t have noticed the obnoxious pedestrians obstructing your progress, but today was different. You had somewhere to be.  
  
Your new studio.  
  
Hopefully.  
  
The address wasn’t hard to find, but the door was another story. You’d never seen a building with a street number on the front of it, but no door.  
  
 _137_  
  
But you remembered what she told you, “ _Go all the way around the back. It’s next to the dumpster.”_  
  
Next to the dumpster. Choice real-estate. No doubt.  
  
For four months, you’d been trying to live and paint in the small place you shared with Maya, Daphne’s friend, and you just couldn’t do it anymore. Clutter was not inspiring. But this place was a broken-down, _who would want to work here?_ , sort of a place. Well, that wasn’t completely fair. The place wasn’t actually broken-down, just very, extraordinarily, aesthetically lacking.  
  
 _VEAL._  
  
You hadn’t even signed the dotted line yet, and you’d already named it.  
  
The doorknob was loose in your hand when you turned it and were greeted by Harper, the artist formerly of this studio, the one you spoke to on the phone. A photographer/painter/something in a tight, lavender knit shirt and even tighter jeans. Most of her stuff was packed up.  
  
“You must be Justin,” she said extending her hand. Her fingernails were all exactly the same length and shining from clear nail polish.  
  
“Justin Taylor. Nice to meet you.” You glanced around the room. Plenty of space. Definitely workable. Gray cinderblock walls, an archive of being on the bottom floor.  
  
Gray cinderblocks painted gray. Redundant.  
  
Harper tightened and re-tightened her sandy-brown ponytail as she spoke to you, “Well, it’s pretty much like I said in the ad. A room, lots of windows, and your own private bathroom.” She grandly gestured toward the almost un-finished looking, closet-size bathroom. “Looks like shit, but it works.”  
  
“It’s fine. It’ll be great.”  
  
“If you want, you can just hang out for a few minutes, just get a feel for a place. Because I don’t know about you, but the way a space _feels_ when I’m actually in it, is really important to me. So, go ahead and get comfortable. I’ve got a few more things to pack up.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
You watched her stack what looked like shoe boxes of photos into a bigger box and then you wandered around, gazing out of every window, trying to imagine where you’d stand your easel and the small table you were using. And your chair.  
  
 _Shit, I’ve got to get another chair._  
  
Living and working in one place had some advantages, not having to have two of everything. Harper pointed to a stack of old milk crates that were sitting in a corner as if she was reading your mind, “You can have these if you want. My new place has built in shelving. I don’t need them.”  
  
“Thanks. That’d be great.” You could sit on those if you had to, you’d just get waffle-butt. “Can I ask you how long you worked in this space?”  
  
“Sure.” She looped her hair inside the rubber band holding up her ponytail. You wondered why girls always feel this compulsive need to fold their hair in half. “I’ve been here for almost two years.”  
  
“And you just got a new place?” You were interested in where she was going. Maybe it was someplace you should check out, too.  
  
“Well, my parents are helping me. My dad doesn’t want me to work down here anymore.”  
  
“Oh, why?”  
  
“Well, there was another girl who worked next door who was mugged twice. She worked here at night a lot; that’s when her muse was the most active, I guess. This place being on the bottom floor isn’t exactly conducive for women who want to work at night.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah, after that, my dad decided to stop hating the fact that I was a starving artist and decided to help me out. Big motivator, fear, you know?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So Tess left, and then I found a new place. That’s pretty much the whole story, so, um, The End.” She made you smile.  
  
You gazed out the window at the alley outside your ‘front’ door and then at the brick wall of the other building right on the other side, covered in graffiti, and then turned around to face Harper again, “So, I can move in tomorrow?”  
  
“Or this afternoon, if you want. There’s the lease. I’ll probably be gone for good in a couple of hours, and then you can make the place all yours. No more essence of someone else’s vibe in your space.”  
  
You signed the lease, handed her a check, and took the key she offered you, “Thanks. I’ll be back this afternoon, probably around three.”  
  
“That’s fine. I’ll be long gone by then. Congratulations. I hope you like it here. Hope it makes you want to paint your little heart out, Justin.”  
  
There were already pictures of canvases crowding your brain, “Yeah, I can’t wait. See you…..around I guess.”  
  
You walked back out into the humid, stagnant air of summer in New York, writing yourself a note to bring Maya’s little pink toolbox with you this afternoon when you came back, so you could fix that shitty doorknob.  
  
******************************  
 _all the lonely people,  
where do they all belong?_  
  
The anonymity of the city freed something inside you. It wet your brush, sharpened your pencil, laid itself out for you to define. And yet it refused to be. The urge to capture even a moment of it, to recreate it, to make it hold still, never went away. Somehow you knew that those moments weren’t meant to be captured or exploited because the minute you made that happen, the moment was gone.  
  
And New York City was nothing like L.A. New Yorkers didn’t want to schmooze you, the weather was completely imperfect, and no one pretended to be thrilled about the contents of their life. It was a target for hate and tragedy. It was a pool of raw opportunity. It was nervous, creative energy zooming around trying to find a place to land. The city was magnificently flawed, a living, breathing, heart-beating victim of circumstance.  
  
And yet it survived.  
  
Just like you.  
  
There was a part of you that belonged here, that would always be a part of you, and you knew it the minute you’d arrived. And then there was another part of you, a much smaller part that felt like this wasn’t your life to be living.  
  
It was Brian’s.  
  
You could see him in the faces of all the people you passed on the street. His drive, his ambition, oozing out of every pore in his skin. But you were here, instead of him.  
  
Because of him.  
  
And when the ideas stalled and the world became quiet save the constant hum of sirens, you missed him.  
  
But it was what you missed that bothered you. You missed being fucked within an inch of life on every available surface. You missed, oddly enough, being known because there were times when you wanted to be. Times when you wanted to walk into a club and see every man’s face look at you, admire you, and then turn away because they knew better. They knew you weren’t there for them.  
  
But that wasn’t being _known_ , you thought, that feeling that you missed, it was being loved. For years you fought to make that obvious to everyone, that that’s who you were, and realized that, more often than not, it hadn’t been obvious to you. And now it was, and you were gone.  
  
New York City had a rhythm, a beat that you’d never been able to hear in Pittsburgh. And for once, it wasn’t just the gay thumpa-thumpa of your life. It was an erratic throbbing that made you wake up every morning and propel yourself into your day, into the meaning of all of this chaos. New York was inevitable.  
  
As inevitable as Brian had been they first night he fucked you. Inevitable because you knew now just like you knew then that everything in your life was changing again.  
  
And you were ready.  
  
The being ready made you excited, and being excited made you horny.  
  
But you weren’t Brian. You couldn’t stand naked from the waist down in the backroom of Babylon, your right foot propped on the end of a couch, reading the latest issue of _Esquire_ (for the ads), jerking off, while some grateful twink ate your ass. And you tried.  
  
It sucked.  
  
Fucking, much to your dismay, wasn’t just an oil change for you. It was _Gold Card, Preferred Customer, VIP Treatment._  
  
You preferred to have your car serviced at the dealer.  
  
So to speak.  
  
After a couple of weeks clubbing in the city, you realized that you’d been tremendously spoiled. And then, within seconds, you were flooded with guilt. Guilt for missing Brian’s scent, the way he kissed you, the way he made every desire you had seem like exactly what he needed. For years you’d felt like Brian’s trick, fought to be more than that, and now, just for a while, you wanted the roles reversed.  
  
So there was always masturbation. At least then, you always knew what you were getting. And your hand could be anybody you wanted. But, unfortunately, mostly, it was just a hand.  
  
And one night, less than a month after you’d been gone, you got tired of giving yourself a hand.  
  
*****************************  
 _I've been holding out so long  
I've been sleeping all alone  
Lord I miss you_  
  
You picked up the phone and dialed.  
  
“ _Kinney residence.”_  
  
You hung up.  
  
 _What the fuck?_  
  
You stared at the ceiling over your bed, trying to decide if you should call back or just jack off all by yourself.  
  
One more try.  
  
“ _Kinney residence. Ted Schmidt speaking. Hello, Justin.”_  
  
You felt like a fool.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“ _Hey._ ”  
  
“What’s going on?” That didn’t sound very nice. “I mean, what are you doing answering Brian’s phone?” It was almost eleven p.m.  
  
 _”Apparently, we’re playing Batman, and I’m his butler.”_  
  
And then you heard Brian’s voice in the background, “ _He’s my fucking nursemaid. Aren’t you, Theodore?”  
  
“As you can see, or rather hear, your significant other is rather inebriated.”_  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“ _We just got back—"_  
  
Brian interrupted him, “ _He’s my ‘Designated Dork’………….And a damn good one, if I do say so myself.”  
  
“Anyway, his affection knows no bounds.”  
  
“How can ‘affection’ know anything?”  
  
“Would you like to speak with him?”_  
  
At that point, you weren’t sure. “I guess so. What’d you guys do tonight?”  
  
“ _Well, basically Brian drank himself under the table, told me I was one of The Chipmunks, and then I drove him home.”_  
  
“Sounds like fun.” Not.  
  
“ _It had its moments. He’s pissing, in the toilet, thankfully. He’ll be right here.”_  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
You listened as Ted told Brian to flush and seemed to be trying to explain to him that you were on the phone, “ _Justin’s on the phone. Wants to talk to you.”  
  
“Sunshine?”  
  
“Yeah, Sunshine.”  
  
“Gimme the phone. And  you can go home.”  
  
“Why thank you for giving me permission.”  
  
“You were a very good Designated Dork tonight, Theodore. I’ll never forget it.”  
  
“Oh, I’m quite certain you will. Here’s the phone and stay away from the staircase. You’ll kill yourself.”  
  
“I will stay right here in this very bed. Don’t you worry.”  
  
“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Sunshine?_" He’d picked up the phone. _"Shut my door please, Theodore.”  
  
“I’m locking you in.”  
  
“Whatthefuckever…... Hey, Suh-shine.”_  
  
“Hey. You okay?”  
  
“ _I’m just a little, extremely drunk.”_  
  
“I can tell.”  
  
“ _What can I do for you?”_  
  
“Well, nothing really. I just wanted to talk to you, but you need to go to sleep.”  
  
“ _No, s’okay. Talk.”_  
  
“You need to go to bed. You have to work tomorrow.”  
  
“ _I’m already in bed. How ‘bout that? But I forgot to take my clothes off.”_  
  
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”  
  
“ _I’ll jus put you on speaker.”_  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You heard some clunking, then _”Shit.”_  
  
He hung up on you.  
  
You waited about two minutes and called him back, “ _Hello?”_  
  
“You all set now?”  
  
“ _Yeah. Sorry about that. Whas’up?”_  
  
You felt your body relax for the first time in a while. You took a deep breath, “I guess I just miss you.”  
  
“ _I miss you, too. A fucking a lot.”_  
  
It was hard to tell if he was serious or just drunk, “Really?”  
  
“ _No, I’m lying.”_  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
“ _Stop missing you or stop lying?”_  
  
“Stop lying.”  
  
“ _I wasn’t lying. I’m too drunk to lie. Ask me anything.”_  
  
You knew better than that, “I miss—“  
  
He interrupted you, “ _You wearing socks right now?”_  
  
You looked down at your feet, “Yeah, I am. It’s chilly here.”  
  
“ _Are they floppin’ all over the place?”_  
  
“Yes, as a matter of fact they are.”  
  
“ _I’ll bet they’re those navy blue ones.”_  
  
“No, they’re white.”  
  
“ _Damn. I like the navy ones better.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Brian, I called because I miss being with you. I miss…..”  
  
“ _Fucking?”_ Leave it to Brian not to mince words, even when he could barely form any.  
  
“Yeah………….I miss fucking.”  
  
“ _Me, too.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You thought about it, “Well, I guess I miss the foreplay, too, not just the fucking—"  
  
“ _I wanna kiss you right now.”_  
  
“I wish you would.”  
  
“ _I wish I would, too……….I’d pay a million dollars to kiss you.”_  
  
“That’s how much I charge.”  
  
“ _Yeah, and that’s with no tongue.”_  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
……  
  
.......  
  
You rolled on your side, cradling the phone on your pillow, your chest starting to tighten. You tried like hell to stop it, or to ignore it, but that wasn’t working very well, so you just laid there quietly listening to him breathe.  
  
Until he started to snore.  
  
You hated the way your voice sounded, even though you were whispering, even though you knew he wasn’t listening, “Brian, I miss you so much. So much. I like it here…..I love it here. I’m painting like crazy every day…………..But at night, when I go to bed……….” You couldn’t say anymore. Couldn’t stand the sound of your own voice. You laid there a little listening to his steady snoring, and decided that a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. You closed your eyes and massaged your cock ‘till it was hard again and then came in your hand a few minutes later. You felt exhaustion start to claim you, you had to go.  
  
“Brian. Wake up.” Nothing. **”Brian. Wake up.”** You heard him stir. “Come on, Brian. Wake up.”  
  
“ _I’m awake. I’m awake.”_ He was so not awake.  
  
“We need to hang up. You’re asleep.”  
  
“ _Mmm, you okay?”_ To this day, you have no idea how Brian can be drunk and intuitive at the same time.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“ _I miss you, Sunshine.”_  
  
“I miss you, too….. Good night, Brian.”  
  
“ _G’night. Get some sleep………………tomorrow.”_  
  
“Okay, tomorrow. Later.”  
  
“ _Later.”_  
  
You laid there listening to the dial tone for a few seconds, hung up the phone, and rolled to your other side, staring out your window at the fire escape until you finally fell asleep.  
  
*****************************  
 _all you do is call me,  
I'll be anything you need_  
  
Your very first show in New York was going to take place just a month shy of your year anniversary in the big city. You arrived at VEAL one morning two weeks before your show with coffee in your hand that cost way more than five bucks, and found the door to your studio jimmied. One look inside and you’d seen everything you needed to see.  
  
Your computer had been stolen.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
You looked around helplessly like the perpetrators would’ve still been hanging around wearing signs that said, ‘WE STOLE YOUR COMPUTER.’ But of course they weren’t. The building was empty. You shut the door, threw your messenger bag on the floor, and sat on a milk crate.  
  
“Goddamnit.”  
  
Everything was on there. Your sketches, some finished work, notes, all the contacts you’d made since you got here. Everything. You got up and looked around to see if they stole anything else. Your oil paints. They were gone. Some creative thief stole your computer and your oil paints. And one of your canvases was missing, a small one, but one you really liked, one that was going to be in the show.  
  
The show. In two weeks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
  
“I can’t believe this.”  
  
You needed a drink. But they stole your liquor, too.  
  
 _What the fuck kind of thieves are these?_  
  
You sat down and tried to think about what to do. About how they broke in, about the mess this was putting you in. You took out your cell phone and called Brian on his. No answer. You didn’t leave a message. You called his private line at Kinnetik.  
  
“ _Justin? Hey.”_  
  
“Hey.”  
  
He could tell by the sound of your voice, “ _”What’s wrong?”_  
  
“Are you busy?”  
  
“ _I’m always busy. What’s wrong? I couldn’t catch my cell in time and you hung up.”_  
  
“I just got to my studio this morning...and my computer was stolen.”  
  
“ _Oh shit.”_  
  
“I know.” Immediately, Brian wanted to know all the details. How did they break in? What else did they take? Were you okay? Did you back up your files? “No.”  
  
Brian was quite for a few seconds, “ _Fuck.”_  
  
“I can’t believe this.” Brian told you he could empathize with you. He’d been robbed before and it fucking sucked. “I didn’t need to be reminded of that right now, okay?”  
  
“ _Just trying to make you laugh.”_  
  
“Well, that’s not funny. My show’s in two weeks. I need my fucking computer. Shit.”  
  
And then you realized that Brian didn’t know you had a show in two weeks. You had some reasons for not telling him that were mostly irrational, but, for some reason, they always made perfect sense whenever you’d been about to spill it. Maybe you just didn’t want to jinx it or something.  
  
Fuck, you didn’t know.  
  
“ _You have a show in two weeks?”_  
  
Shit.  
  
“Yeah, well, I just got confirmation about that.”  
  
You could hear Brian trying to reign in his disappointment, “ _Congratulations. Where is it?”_  
  
“At a niche-y gallery called _Frequency._ It’s not big deal, really.”  
  
……  
  
“ _Guess not, since you didn’t tell me.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Your forehead was resting on your palm, “It was a tentative thing. I wasn’t even sure I’d have enough stuff ready for it.”  
  
“ _Your computer’s insured. Call the police and file a report. I’ll call you back after I talk to the insurance company, so we can get it replaced.”_  
  
“I can call them if you want, the insurance company.”  
  
“ _The policy’s in my name.”_ Brian didn’t call you back until after your new computer had arrived at your apartment two days later, “ _Just checking to make sure you got it.”_  
  
“Yeah, that was a surprise. I didn’t know….. What do I owe you?” You thought about your dwindling bank account and panicked a little.  
  
“ _Nothing. It’s taken care of.”_  
  
“No. At least let me pay the deductible.”  
  
“ _Two hundred and fifty dollars.”_ You could swing that.  
  
“I’ll send you a check.”  
  
You called the insurance company an hour later, pretending to be Brian, and found out that the deductible was a thousand.  
  
The next day, you cancelled your show. There was no way you’d be ready in time.  
  
*****************  
 _I guess I'll rap on your door  
tap on your window pane_  
  
Two days later, you sipped lukewarm coffee at your new computer trying to create something. The day before had been dead, not one idea was taking flight. You looked up from your screen when you saw the doorknob turning on your studio door. You moved in slow motion, picking up your weapon of choice from where it stood propped in a corner, and stood behind the door. You scared the shit out of Harper when she opened the door and saw you standing there with a rusty piece of pipe at the ready.  
  
“ _What_ are you doing here?”  
  
She looked stunned, “Why are you going to hit me with that pipe?”  
  
“I was robbed this week. I thought you were the thief coming back. They took everything. Everything that mattered.”  
  
She took the pipe out of your hand and laid it on the floor, never taking her eyes off your face, “Shit, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I mean I got a new computer, but my I had to cancel my fucking show. A lot of my work is computer generated.”  
  
“Look, I wasn’t trying to barge in. I knocked but your music is too loud or you were in space or something.”  
  
“I was concentrating. What are you doing here?” You’d seen Harper a couple of times in the city over the past seven months, but never really spoken to her at length. She always seemed so busy, always doing three things at once.  
  
“I came to talk to you. I’m sorry about just coming in.”  
  
“It’s okay. You just scared the shit out of me.”  
  
Harper was already moving on to the next subject. She laughed at your upside down milk crate in front of your computer, “You still haven’t gotten a chair?”  
  
“No. The crate is fine.”  
  
She shook her head at you, “You wanna go get some coffee or something? Maybe get your mind off of being vandalized? You look really stressed out.”  
  
“You said you wanted to talk to me.”  
  
“I do,” she handed you your coat, “but why don’t we talk over lunch?”  
  
You looked around, trying to decide if you felt like leaving. Seemed okay to have some company. “All right.”  
  
She watched you lock the door, “Let me show you a little trick about that doorknob.”  
  
*****************  
 _and I wonder where she will stay  
my little runaway_  
  
Harper walks faster than you do, faster than anybody you know, and you had to keep adjusting your cadence to keep up with her as she wove through the people on the sidewalk. Finally, you got frustrated and yanked on her ponytail.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“Slow down, all right?”  
  
“Sorry. Jesus.”  
  
The overwhelming smell of a million versions of coffee comforted you as you walked inside the coffee shop. You told Harper you just wanted black coffee, not decaf, and sat down to save a booth for the two of you. She returned moments later with coffee and chocolate chip cookies, “Here, you look hungry.”  
  
“I’m fine, but thanks.” You took the cookies anyway. They were warm. Now you wanted a glass of milk.  
  
“You’re welcome.” She smiled at you and stretched her legs underneath the table, propping her feet on your side of the booth. She was acting like she’d known you for years, and this would be the first full hour you’d ever spent with her.  
  
You talked, commiserating about dying muses, trying to sell your work, living in the city. You had to admit that it was nice to talk to someone who understood art. After about twenty minutes, you found out why she’d returned to talk to you, “My dad, that new place he got me, I don’t have it anymore.”  
  
“Why not? What happened.”  
  
“It’s a long story.” She turned and looked out the window, twisting her ponytail in her hand. “Suffice it to say that my parents don’t think my art is viable or some shit like that. I’m on my own again.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Guess we’re both having a shitty week, huh?”  
  
“Guess so.”  
  
She tapped her spoon on the table. Three taps on the end, turn it over, three taps on the other end, turn it over. “So, I want to come back.”  
  
“What?” You were still counting the spoon taps.  
  
“I want to come back. See if maybe we could share the space for a while? That place has always inspired me for some dumb reason, and I can’t afford anything else. We could split the rent. Make a schedule if you’re one of those people that needs to be alone to work. I understand if you are, a lot of artists are like that.”  
  
“I don’t have to be alone to work. I’m used to having someone around. Brian, he’s my………..anyway, we lived in a loft. It was totally open. I’m used to having people in my space.”  
  
“Then it’s okay? Is that what you’re saying?” You really didn’t think she’d take ‘no’ for an answer. She seemed like one of those people who always got her way.  
  
“Yeah, it’s okay. I suppose I could tolerate the ‘essence of your vibe’ in my space.” She looked relieved as she sat fiddling with the napkin dispenser.  
  
Harper was on her cell phone in thirty seconds calling a friend, “Hey, it’s me. He said ‘yes.’ Can you bring my stuff over this afternoon?” Her eyes opened wide and she winked at you. “Great, great…..yeah, anytime this afternoon. I’ll be there.”  
  
Three hours later when Harper had gone to pick up some supplies she needed, there was a knock at the door.  
  
“Who is it?” You needed a peephole.  
  
“ _Santa Claus.”_  
  
That sounded like a street name for a really evil thug. You stood there on the other side of the door trying to think of what to do.  
  
“ _Look, I’ve got Harper’s shit. Let me in.”_  
  
You opened the door and were staring at the chest of a guy who was much taller than you. He was carrying the same box of photographs you’d seen Harper pack up the day you met her. His shirt read, ‘SECURITY.’  
  
  
Lyrics from America’s _A Horse with No Name,_ The Beatles’ _Eleanor Rigby_ , the Rolling Stones’ _Miss You,_ Peter Gabriel’s _Sledgehammer,_ Aretha Franklin’s _Until You Come Back to Me,_ and Del Shannon’s _Runaway._


	9. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 6-Complimentary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/28/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 6-COMPLIMENTARY  
  
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
 _dude looks like a lady_  
  
He was late. Again. As usual. The one day of the week you _ask_ him to be on time, and he was late. It was a good thing for him that it was wintertime because you were in no mood to deal with two hundred thawing chicken breasts, thank you very much. It’s not like you ask a lot of him.  
  
Very often.  
  
You had plenty to do to keep you busy while you waited for him, like counting the box of his grungy, disgusting business cards that you were collecting at the hostess stand. You looked up and scanned the restaurant every three minutes or so, checking beverage levels, redoing your seating chart as people were getting ready to leave. The key to running a profitable restaurant was maximizing the number of people at every available table and seating customers such that each server’s section was never too busy or too slow. Quite frankly, that takes talent.  
  
And years of management experience.  
  
And you had both.  
  
During one of your three-minute-look-arounds, you saw Zeek standing outside the restaurant in his ‘PROPERTY OF THE F.B.I.’ t-shirt, running his mouth to a customer that’d just left. He was with that girl, Harper. She drove you up a fucking wall because she insisted on playing with her hair over her food.  
  
That’s just wrong.  
  
You’d given up trying to get Zeek to wear a plain t-shirt to work; it just wasn’t gonna happen. That became abundantly clear to you the day he showed up to unload the truck wearing one that said, ‘NYPD ANIMAL CONTROL’ on the front, and ‘RODENT UNIT,’ on the back. The two of you almost came to blows over that, but then Mama came out and told Zeek to wear it inside out and for both of you to shut the hell up about it.  
  
So you did.  
  
And then for Christmas that year, Zeek gave you a black one that said, ‘HONK IF YOU’RE ANAL.’ You use it to clean the mold in your shower…every other day.  
  
Except Sundays.  
  
“ _I fucking knew you were going to do that, man. You and your possessive-compulsive bullshit.”  
  
“That’s  obsessive compulsive, you Neanderthal.”  
  
“Yeah, see, you’re even anal about what you call it, man.”_  
  
Today, Zeek was with Harper and somebody else, some guy you didn’t recognize. At least, you thought it was a guy. You couldn’t be sure. He was too far away and way too pretty. You went back to your routine of scanning the restaurant, counting Zeek’s business cards in your hand, trying not to get more pissed off. You were trying to give one of a your servers a hint to ask one of her tables if they needed another bottle of wine. They were drinking an expensive Riesling. You wanted to sell another bottle. You were about to walk over and sell it yourself because you knew you’d do a better job when you looked up and saw Zeek standing right in front of you. Harper and, _yeah, that was a guy,_ were waiting to be seated right behind him. Zeek grabbed two menus and sat them without even _looking_ at your seating chart.  
  
Unacceptable.  
  
And then he walked towards you with a huge smile on his face when he knew damn well you were pissed at him.  
  
“What’d you do that for?” you asked him, trying to look congenial through your frustration. You were really good at that.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“You know damn well what. Seat them without consulting with me first. That’s not where my next table for two was going to be.”  
  
“Jesus, Gabe, there're like ten empty tables in here. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Zeek looked over at Harper and her friend and waved.  
  
Sometimes he’s such a moron.  
  
They waved back.  
  
Great. Morons begetting morons.  
  
You turned your attention back to Zeek, his box of ‘business cards’ in your hand. You shook it at him as you talked, “Look, I’m not doing this anymore—"  
  
“Doing what?” Fucking asks a question before you can even finish your damn sentence.  
  
“I’ve told you forty-five times, Zeek, just because you fuck somebody doesn’t mean they get a free lunch. Your plethora of ‘spaghetti gift certificates’ are seriously hurting our profit margin. I mean, that girl Harper’s had more free lasagna here than Mama can make in a month.”  
  
“Yeah, man, she’s hot.”  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, “And who’s that guy who’s with her? I suppose he has one of your calling cards, too.”  
  
“That’s Eggo.”  
  
“Eggo? What the fuck kind of name is ‘Eggo?’”  
  
Zeek gave you that smug laugh that made you want to smack him, “He had little waffle marks on his ass when I fucked him.”  
  
“Oh Jesus, now I’ve heard everything.”  
  
“Look here, Babycakes, Mama doesn’t care if I give my friends a coupon for a free lunch, so you need to chill the fuck out. You do it for your friends all the time.”  
  
“Yes, my  friends, Zeek, not my fuck buddies. Your dick is going to bankrupt us.”  
  
Zeek told you it wasn’t really a coupon, it was just his business card, ones he was ready to ‘retire’ with ‘FREE LUNCH’ scrawled on the back, “How ‘bout if I just write ‘FREE DRINK?’ Can you keep your panties on if I do that?”  
  
“’FREE DRINK. NO REFILLS.’”  
  
“I’m not writing that, you asshole. This is how I network, man. It’s how I further my _business relationships_ and _enhance customer loyalty._ ” You wondered if Zeek had been reading from one of your textbooks again. His chest puffed out. “You know, word of mouth.”  
  
“Word of _cock_ is more like it. And for Christ’s sake, Zeek, you don’t even have a _business_. You’re a brute for hire. Just because you put ‘President and CEO’ on a business card, doesn’t mean you own a business.” You scanned the restaurant quickly. Had to stay on top of things. “And besides, normal people take someone out to dinner _before_ they fuck them. They don’t fuck them and then comp them a meal afterwards.”  
  
“Yeah, well, potato tomato.”  
  
“You mean ‘potato, potata.’”  
  
“Whateverthefuck you said, okay? You’re just jealous because I get way more tail that you do.”  
  
“Well, at least people don’t fuck me for free lasagna.”  
  
‘Yeah, well, maybe you’d get more takers if you tried it my way. If you didn’t _discriminate._ ” That was Zeek’s way of admitting that he’d fuck anything that had a pulse and a smile, and not necessarily in that order.  
  
 _”Boys, that's enough. Zeek, go unload the truck, and Gabe don’t talk shit to your brother in front of my entire restaurant.”_ Mama had overhead.  
  
When you finally had time to sit down in your office at the end of the day and sort through all of your paperwork, you noticed that your business cards were upside down in their holder. You picked them up to turn them back over and realized that Zeek had written ‘TIGHT WAD’ on the back of all twenty-five of them. You threw them in the trash can and were all ready to staple your numerically-sorted purchase orders to their corresponding invoices when you couldn’t find your brand new stapler.  
  
It was hanging from the ceiling.  
  
*********************  
 _so never judge a book by its cover  
or who you gonna love by your lover_  
  
That night, just like pretty much every Friday night, you caught up with Zeek and some people he identified as ‘friends’ at whichever club was the hot spot that week. Lately, it was _Mindset._ Zeek was always easy to spot wherever you met up with him, something about that fluorescent glow of testosterone that was always preceding him. You spotted him in his ‘FDNY’ t-shirt. Zeek had never put out a fire in his life. He starts them.  
  
“Whazzup little brother?”  
  
“Fuck you. I would’ve been here sooner, but it took me ten minutes to find my fucking stapler.”  
  
Zeek busted out laughing while simultaneously performing an innocuous hand gesture that landed a drink right in front you.  
  
A Midori Sour.  
  
Your favorite.  
  
Zeek made a horrible face, “I don’t know how you can drink those fairy drinks, ‘Cakes. Don’t know how.”  
  
“Last week you said it was a ‘candy-ass’ drink.’ Make up your mind.”  
  
“’Candy-ass, fairy, same damn thing.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I happen to be a card-carrying, candy-ass fairy, so I suppose that’s appropriate.”  
  
“You got that right.” The music changed and Zeek directed your attention to Eggo and Harper slamming shots at the end of the bar. “Gonna go cut a rug with the Bobbsey twins. Welcome to join us.”  
  
“No thanks.”  
  
“More for me, Babycakes. More for me. I certainly don’t mind being the middle of a blond-sandwich.”  
  
Zeek started to walk away from you and you called him back, “Hey, Meathead, hold it. Does that Harper girl know that you’re boning that Eggo kid?”  
  
An evil smile spread across Zeek’s face, “She was there, man. She was right there, the whole time.”  
  
“Good lord, Zeek.”  
  
He slapped you on the back, “Hey, it’s impolite not to share, man. You oughta know that, Mr. Manners. Besides, there’s plenty of me to go around.”  
  
“Don’t remind me.”  
  
“I can’t even decide who’s hotter. They’ve both got asses that won’t quit.”  
  
“I’m sure it keeps you up at night.”  
  
“Right again, little brother. Right. Again. You’re batting a thousand tonight.” As Zeek walked away, he tapped on the bar, getting the bartender’s attention, “Hey, hit Babycakes one more time. On him.”  
  
You flipped him off.  
  
Zeek.  
  
Not the bartender.  
  
*********************  
 _If u didn't come 2 party,  
don't bother knockin' on my door_  
  
You sipped your candy-ass, fairy liquid encore and watched Zeek handle Harper and Eggo like they were two trained tigers. If you asked Zeek, you were sure he’d tell you they were. You perused the club for someone more your speed, but wondered why you bothered considering Mindset wasn’t exactly a hang-out for affluent/independently wealthy, professional, educated, slim-but-not-emaciated, gay men who’d be interested in taking you home.  
  
 _Shame,_ you thought. _I’m neat, clean, smart, more or less well-hung, and I can cook like a banshee._ A well-off, intellectual homosexual would be lucky to bag you.  
  
You were a catch.  
  
Your eyes wondered back to Zeek and what _he’d_ caught for the evening. _Throws in one line and gets back two fish. Figures. Story of his life._ Thirty minutes later, the trio was heading towards you, the twins propped on either of Zeek’s arms. They’d obviously had too much to drink.  
  
“Gonna take my friends home, ‘Cakes. Catch you later.”  
  
Eggo stopped right in front of you and looked you right in the eye. You’d never seen such blue eyes on someone who obviously had no personal integrity. “Wanna come?”  
  
You tried not to roll your eyes, “No thanks. I don’t fish in my brother’s pond.”  
  
“Whoa. That was profound.” Harper burst into laughter at Eggo’s response.  
  
“Yeah. I’m deep like that.”  
  
Eggo gave you a seductive smile, “I’ll bet.” He smiled way too much. It was annoying.  
  
Zeek yanked him by the arm, “Forget it, Eggo. You’re not Babycakes’ type.”  
  
Eggo didn’t move. Just stood right in front of you, “Why not?”  
  
“You’re broke, dude.”  
  
Eggo winked at you. The nymph took flirting to a whole new level, “That’s what you think.”  
  
*********************  
 _get these mutts away from me  
you know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore_  
  
The next day you nearly lost your shit when a homeless guy showed up with one of Zeek’s ‘coupons.’ He smelled. He was filthy. And there was _no_ way in hell you were going to let him eat in your restaurant. But he was also irrationally persistent; he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and you didn’t want a scene, especially right at the start of the Saturday lunch rush. So you offered him takeout that someone had never picked up—Chicken Parmesan.  
  
He refused.  
  
When you tried to impress upon him that there was no way he was going to dine in your upstanding establishment when he smelled like a sewer, he finally spoke, “Wait.”  
  
“No. I’m not gonna wait. You need to leave, or I’m calling the police.”  
  
He shook his head at you, almost like it was a nervous tick, “No. Wait for Josie.”  
  
Your frustration was winning out, “Sorry. No one here by that name.”  
  
He shoved Zeek’s business card right under your nose, “Josie. Have to wait for Josie,” and then sat down in on a bench by the hostess stand. You’d had enough and broke down and called Zeek.  
  
He picked up in the middle of the first ring, “ _Yo, ‘Cakes—"_  
  
“Where are you?” You knew Zeek could hear the irritation in your voice.  
  
“ _At Mama’s, hooking her up with some free cable.”_ That was just perfect. That was all you need to top off the perfect week: your mother in jail for stealing cable. Mama’s was four blocks away from the restaurant.  
  
“Well, I need you to get over here.” You whispered the rest, “ _Because there’s an absolutely vile, homeless man here with one of your cards and he won’t leave.”  
  
“Oh shit.”_  
  
“You’re damn right, ‘Oh shit.’ You need to—"  
  
“ _What’s he look like?”_  
  
“He looks gross. That’s what he looks like—“ You didn’t care if the guy heard you. He’d been staring blankly in the direction of the front door since he sat down.  
  
“ _Dirty blonde hair, big brown eyes?”_  
  
You actually looked at the man closely. His hair was the epitome of _dirty_ blond, “Yeah.”  
  
“ _Fuck. Don’t let him leave, Gabe. I’m coming.”_  
  
“What? Don’t let him leave?”  
  
Your words fell on deaf ears. Zeek had long since hung up on you.  
  
*********************  
 **ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
 _when I was a little boy  
and the devil would call my name_  
  
When you, Alan Harper, surfaced, when you rose to the top, you were looking for something. Something that you thought, that you hoped, you remembered. Your journey was and always would be hampered by the smell of life underneath the streets of New York City--the dark, damp smell of the human condition, of the overwhelming need to persevere. The stench of neglect. And decorated with Technicolor images of things that you hoped were memories.  
  
But most of them weren’t.  
  
Most of them were the byproducts of a sabotaged imagination, one that betrayed you under the guise of a constant, benevolent, yet misguided mission to guard you against the villainy of the world. A world that you feared knew what you were looking for.  
  
And wanted to take it away from you.  
  
There were days when you were positive of that, days when you could catalogue the photographs left in your head while the rest of the world was eating breakfast, when the resulting collage in your head seemed strangely void of fear. On those days, you wound upward through the tunnels underneath the city, squinting hard at the eventual streaks of light as you got closer to the street. On those days, you walked and concentrated on the comforting vision in your mind—the only uncorrupted picture of your family you had left.  
  
Your sister.  
  
You walked, unwelcome, knowing that the sidewalk resented your footsteps because you were no longer useful. You were a burden.  
  
But a part of you knew that it hadn’t always been that way. There were random, faded flashes of bicycles and board games, sneaking up on your mother while she read the latest romance novel on the front porch, sitting beside Harper on a plaid couch while she tried to teach you how to crochet, her feet unwisely perched on the coffee table, against the rules.  
  
But she was Josie back then.  
  
She was Josie who pretended not to be afraid when you explained how you had to smother a stray cat that preferred your front porch because it was threatening you. She was Josie who accepted the job of hiding your exaggerated actions and rationalizing your philosophical deteriorations because it felt good, because it gave her a purpose.  
  
And a purpose was something that you’d only have on a good day, like today.  
  
*********************  
 _if you’ll be my bodyguard  
I will be your long, lost pal_  
  
Three hundred and fifty-seven footsteps and you smelled that smell that you remembered. That you associated with her. Garlic. Three hundred and sixty-eight and you were standing in front of the first of many gates you’d pass through today, the card you held in your hand having fallen on the floor the last time you saw her. You didn’t know how long ago.  
  
The anger directed at you felt like progress. You weren’t invisible today. And when Zeek showed up to collect you, you started counting again.  
  
From three hundred and sixty-eight.  
  
“Alan, man, you have to take a shower before I’ll take you.” Squinting again in the sunlight. _Four hundred and twelve._  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And I’ll give you some clean clothes.”  
  
 _Four hundred and thirty-nine._ “Okay.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Look man, can you stop counting? That drives me nuts.”  
  
 _I’m not counting out loud._  
  
“Yes, you are.” _Four hundred and seventy--, seventy--, seventy—two._ “You sure as hell are.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
 _Five hundred and ele--_  
  
“You don’t have to count, man. I’ll help you get home.”  
  
*********************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _these events may have had some effect  
on the man with the girl by his side_  
  
Harper looked relieved when they knocked on the door. She opened it and wrapped her arms around a man who barely looked like a man. He was so pale. So lost. His clothes hung off of him. They were too big.  
  
Zeek introduced you, “Alan, this is Eggo.”  
  
“Hi, my name’s Jus—"  
  
“His name’s Eggo,” Zeek repeated, almost a warning in his voice.  
  
Alan spoke to you, “I like waffles.”  
  
“Me, too. It’s nice to meet you.”  
  
But Alan wasn’t even listening to you anymore. He was focused on Harper, “Want you to cut my hair.”  
  
She smiled, “Already got my scissors out.” She walked over to her desk and picked them up. Alan sat on one of your milk crates and closed his eyes. You watched quietly as Harper’s fingers moved through his hair. It was almost if that was enough for him, to feel his hair falling around him. His head began to fall forward and you finally spoke, almost in a whisper,  
  
“Harper, he’s falling asleep.”  
  
She smiled again, “He always does.” She stopped cutting for a second and waited for his head to complete its descent and then resumed. The only noise in the room the snip of her scissors and the click of your mouse. Zeek sat at your computer, surfing the net in silence. You looked back at him and he raised his eyebrows for a second and smiled.  
  
When Harper finished, she tapped Alan on the shoulder, “I’m done. You can get up.” He stood seeming almost disoriented and made his way to the futon. She sat beside him, and he laid down and put his head in her lap. You felt like you were observing something private and intimate, yet at the same time, you knew she didn’t want you to leave.  
  
“Bad things are happening. Something bad is trying to come.” Alan mumbled into her lap.  
  
She stroked his hair, “I know.”  
  
“I’m trying not to, but they’re still happening. Every day.”  
  
“It’s okay. They aren’t real.”  
  
“They aren’t real.” He wasn’t agreeing with her, he was trying to convince himself. It was the last thing he said before he fell asleep, his head on her legs. You sat on a crate next to Zeek and watched them until Zeek’s hushed voice interrupted your viewing,  
  
“I’m gonna go down the street and get some pizza and beer. He’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”  
  
“You want me to go with you?”  
  
“No, I want you to stay here. Call my cell phone if he wakes up, but he probably won’t. I won’t be gone long.”  
  
It made you nervous that Zeek was leaving, but you didn’t tell him, “Okay.”  
  
You watched him leave and then moved your glance back to the two of them. Before they arrived, Harper told you that Alan had been the one who’d stolen your computer.  
  
You looked at her dumbfounded, “ _What?”  
  
“Just listen to me before you get upset. It’s complicated.”  
  
“Go on. I’m listening.”  
  
“My brother’s homeless. His name is Alan. He’s a year younger than me."_  
  
You’d stared at her like you didn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, “ _I had to cancel my fucking show because of my computer being stolen.”_  
  
“ _I know, and I’m sorry. He’s fucked up, Justin. He suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”_  
  
She’d had an expectant look on her face, awaiting your reaction. You didn’t really know what to say. “ _Shit. I don’t understand. Your family’s well-off. How can your brother be homeless? That makes no sense.”_  
  
She took a deep breath, glanced at the gray floor and then looked up at you again, “ _Justin, I wasn’t exactly honest with you about why I wanted to come back here, why I wanted to share this space with you. My brother’s lived in the tunnels for about three years.”  
  
“The tunnels?”_  
  
She nodded, “ _Yeah. There’re intricate tunnels underneath the city where entire communities of homeless people live. A lot of them, once they end up way down there, don’t ever come back up. Alan does…….when he remembers me.”  
  
“Holy fuck.”  
  
“I had to come back here because he thinks this is where I am. When I left to go to that place that my dad got for me, it was a disaster. He came around and my dad was furious. He doesn’t believe that Alan’s sick; he thinks he’s just a quitter, a loser. My dad has a rather narrow view of the world sometimes.”  
  
“So what if he came around there?”  
  
“My dad doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to even acknowledge him as someone he knows, much less fathered. I was my father’s pride and joy until I told him that I wouldn’t turn Alan away. My dad basically threw me out.”_  
  
You told her you could relate to that.  
  
“ _I’m pretty sure he stole your computer because he came by here and saw you here and not me. He doesn’t function in the rational world. He just doesn’t understand when things aren’t exactly like they were.”_ You were both quiet for a minute. “ _I wanted you, it’s important for you, to meet him so I can show him that you’re my friend, so he won’t mess with your stuff. If I just tell him, he won’t remember. He needs to see you. In a lot of ways, he’s like a little kid.”  
  
“I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“It’s okay. I’ve been apologizing for my brother all my life. I understand if you’re angry. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s just that he doesn’t steal for the same reasons that other people steal. He tries to make things like he remembers them. I never had a computer here. It probably confused him, made him frustrated.”  
  
“Shit.”_ You felt like you should be really pissed or something, but then you glanced back at your brand new computer that was even better than the old one, and you just couldn’t be.  
  
Harper told you that she hoped you still wanted to be her friend, “ _And to stay here. I really like working with you, Justin. I hope you don’t want to leave.”_  
  
You weren’t sure what to do. And then there was a knock at the door, and you saw the expression on Alan’s face when he saw Harper, a mixture of relief and an apologetic desperation.  
  
It was an expression he would always wear.  
  
*********************  
 _for what it’s worth  
it was worth all the while_  
  
When Zeek returned with the pizza, Alan started to wake up. The four of you sat on the floor in sort of a circle with the box on a crate in the middle. Zeek had forgotten to ask for paper plates. The four of you ate together and you listened as Harper tried to fill Alan in on what was going on in the world,  
  
“Bush is still the president, and we’re still fighting in Iraq. Do you remember that?”  
  
“Yeah, Stitch killed people in Iraq.”  
  
You figured Stitch was one of his friends. Zeek handed you a fresh beer.  
  
“Stitch’s killed people in every war, Alan,” Harper reminded him.  
  
“He likes to kill people.”  
  
She nodded, “In your mind. He likes to kill people in your mind.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
She winked at him, “Just checking.” Alan laughed.  
  
When the pizza was gone, you went with Zeek to the dumpster to throw everything away, “Harper tell you that she’s pretty sure he’s the one that broke in here?”  
  
“Yeah, she told me.”  
  
When you opened the door to your studio, Alan was helping Harper open up the futon. He laid down on it, and she laid down beside him. He mumbled to her until he fell asleep.  
  
“Harper, do you care if I sketch the two of you?” you asked her. Her arm had looped over him, and there was a peaceful smile on her face.  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
Zeek watched you as you drew them, as he popped the top on the last beer, “You’re really good.”  
  
“It’s not me. It’s the subject matter.”  
  
“Harper tell you the whole story. How she and I met?”  
  
Your eyes didn’t move from the picture forming in front of you, “No.”  
  
Zeek lowered his voice, Harper having fallen asleep as well, “Buddy of mine, Reef, me and him were on our way here almost two years ago. Got a job painting a bunch of units in this building.”  
  
“Mmm, hmm.”  
  
“So we saw her and this fucked up, filthy guy in front of the building. He was screaming at her, kept saying, “’Just give it to me,’ or something like that. Reef and I thought he was going to attack her.”  
  
“Did he?”  
  
“Not before we jumped him.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah, Reef was about to beat the shit of him, but then she started screaming, ‘Stop, he’s my brother,’ so he let up.  
  
“He wasn’t trying to attack her, then?”  
  
“Nah, he was just trying to get his point across. Whatever that was.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
You’d completed the picture an hour later, save a few details you’d probably add later. You dated it and signed it, out of habit, your pencil stopping when you tried to think of what to name it.  
  
You took the name from what you could see of Alan’s t-shirt, writing it in all capital letters in the lower left corner, “ _SECURITY._ ”  
  
*********************  
 _so take the photographs, and still frames in your mind  
hang it on a shelf in good health and good time_  
  
About a month later, Harper offered for you to piggyback on a small show she was in with a few other relatively unknown artists, “I asked the guy at the gallery, and he said ‘sure.’ It’s a pretty big place; they’ve got extra space to fill.”  
  
“So he wants me because I can fill space?” You were half joking, and half not. You were both high, anyway. You didn’t really care.  
  
“Well, I told him that you had this huge mural you were working on, and he said, ‘That would be perfect.’”  
  
You looked over at the mural you were working on. Well, sort of working on. The inspiration behind it had died down the last couple of weeks. “I don’t even know when I’ll be done with it. I’m kind of losing interest in it.”  
  
“Well, it looks done to me.”  
  
“Well, it’s not.”  
  
“Well, maybe it is and you just don’t know it yet.”  
  
You tilted your head sideways and looked at it, “It’s a big, black blob. I don’t even know what it is.”  
  
Harper turned her head, blowing the smoke from her joint in the other direction, “You’ll know when it wants you to know.”  
  
“Right. Whatever. You’re just personalizing an inanimate object, like you always do.”  
  
“They personalize themselves, Justin.”  
  
You rolled your eyes at her, lying on the futon so you could look at the picture from another angle. She told you not to let the blood rush to your head and took your joint away from you.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And then it came to you, “Holy shit, that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s upside down.” You got up and started to rotate it.  
  
Harper got up, “Jesus, let me help you. You’ll drop it.”  
  
You took a good, hard look at it once you and Harper had turned it one hundred and eighty degrees. What you thought was a solid black waste of your time was suddenly riddled with shadows and implications. You were ready to start finishing it right then, but Zeek was on his way over. The two of you hadn’t seen him since Alan’s visit. Instead of spending that Saturday evening drenched in paint, you spent it dining, drinking, and dancing. The three of you stumbled back to the studio sometime after one a.m. You were lying face down on the futon, staring at the picture you’d finish within three days, while Zeek fucked you.  
  
When you came, there were colors mixing together in your head. Zeek came a few seconds later, “You’re tighter than a virgin on prom night, Eggo. You know that?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Don’t ever say that to me again.”  
  
*********************  
 _at night when the bars close down,  
Brandy walks through a silent town,  
and loves a man who's not around_  
  
The card on the basket of wine, fruit, and cheese that was waiting for you when you arrived at the gallery the night of your first show read:  
  
 _Good luck tonight,  
Brian_  
  
You’d told him about it a week before.  
  
“ _It’s no big deal, really. It’s not even really my show. I’m just kind of going along for the ride.”  
  
“Shit, I’d love to be there. I just wish I’d had more notice. I’m flying to Toronto with Michael to see the kids that afternoon.”  
  
“That’s okay. Really, it’s no big deal.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Justin, I want to be there. I just can’t cancel on Gus.”  
  
“And god forbid you cancel on Michael. You’ll never hear the end of it.”  
  
“No kidding.”  
  
……  
  
…...  
  
“I can’t make this one, but I’ll come up there………..if you want…..Soon.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it. You can always come to the next one.”  
  
…..  
  
“Okay, sounds good.”  
  
“I’ve got to run, Brian. I’ve got a lot to do today.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
……  
  
“Justin?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I’m serious when I say I want to be there.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“All right, then I guess I’ll talk to you later.”  
  
“Yeah. Later.”_  
  
*********************  
 _I’m on my way,  
can’t stop me now_  
  
You and Harper had arrived fashionably late with Zeek in tow. He hovered around the front of the gallery, worried that Alan would show up.  
  
“You kids have fun schmoozing. I’ll be up here.”  
  
Harper seemed to relax once Zeek got there. And admittedly, so did you. She held up one of the bottles of wine, “Oh good, we can drink this later.” The two of you stood in the gallery’s break room trying to find room in the fridge for the cheese.  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s top notch, whatever it is.” You’d tucked the card from Brian in your wallet.  
  
“Guess we better go mingle, huh?”  
  
“Guess so.”  
  
You lost track of Harper as soon as she joined the milieu of people in the gallery’s foyer, being a social butterfly often seemed second nature to her. You wandered around looking at everyone else’s work before going over to your own. You had five pieces in the show: _Security,_ two computer-generated pieces created on your old computer and recovered through an email you’d sent to Daphne, a two foot square painting that you’d done several months ago, and the mural. You were standing in front of it, trying to decide if it was actually finished, if you were even happy with it, when the young woman who’d handed you the gift basket upon your arrival walked up behind you. Her flowery perfume virtually accosted you as she put her hand in front of your face, a round, orange sticker stuck on the end of her index finger,  
  
“Well, Mr. Taylor, would you like to do the honors?”  
  
You turned around, “What?”  
  
She walked around you, smiling, putting the orange sticker on the tag next to your painting:  
  
 _Untitled  
Justin Taylor_.  
  
“Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, this painting’s been sold.”  
  
“It has?”  
  
“First one out of the gate tonight,” her hand smooth over the sticker as she spoke, so matter-of-factly. “Before we’d even opened.”  
  
The flowery woman turned on her heel to walk away from you, but your words stopped her, “Wait. How could it sell before you’d even opened?”  
  
She returned, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Happens all the time. The owner has friends who come to private showings before we open to the public. Guess your painting caught someone’s eye…….and their wallet.”  
  
“Wow. Guess so.”  
  
“ _My, that’s a pity, isn’t it?”_  
  
*********************  
 _color me your color, baby  
color me your car,  
color me your color, darling  
I know who you are_  
  
Another voice coming from behind you. People sure liked to sneak up on you in this place. The man sporting the deep voice quickly moved to stand to your left. Thankfully, he smelled nothing like flowers; more like……something really good. He held his glass of red wine as if it was on display, as if he’d walked all the way to the back of the gallery just to show it to you, his eyes fixed on the mural, “I was ready to snatch this piece up.”  
  
 _He smells brand new,_ you thought.  
  
You turned your head to look closely at him, “You were?” He was a few inches taller than you, impeccably dressed, his black dress shirt tucked perfectly into his gray wool slacks.  
  
“Absolutely, knew right where I was going to display it. I have the perfect spot for it.” He took his time with each word that came out of his mouth, seemed to treat them all individually like they weren’t all part of a sentence. His black belt and black shoes looked like it was their first night on the town. He seemed to study you as he spoke, “Over the sofa in my office. I really need something there,” he sipped his wine. You wondered why you didn’t have a glass. “Something exactly like this.”  
  
The space around the two of you was vacant, almost as it people had been warned to stay away.  
  
“I’m sorry. That it’s already been sold.” You wondered if you should suggest that he buy one of the other four pieces you had in the show, but he started talking again, almost as if he could read your mind, “I was drawn to this piece in particular because, well, it has such a quiet violence about it.”  
  
“Isn’t that an oxymoron? Quiet violence?”  
  
“I don’t know. You painted it. You tell me.”  
  
A hush hung in the air between you as you let your eyes wander over the whole painting before you replied, “I have violent feelings _about_ it, but that’s not what I see when I look at it.”  
  
“Ah, dissonance…..Perhaps that’s what you should call it.”  
  
“No. It’s not about dissonance.”  
  
“Could’ve fooled me, but then again, I’m not an artist.” _Exactly,_ you thought. “I’m just a doctor.” He turned and looked you right in the eye.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“A psychiatrist,” he said succinctly, “A psychiatrist with an unhealthy addiction to dissonant art.”  
  
“I really don’t think it’s dissonant.”  
  
He looked back at the painting, “Well, then, I’m off base. Won’t be the first time.” He turned again, extending his hand in your direction, “Daniel Cartwright.”  
  
You shook it. He wore no rings, and he’d obviously had a manicure. Nobody's hands looked that perfect. His hand was warm and dry. And calm.  
  
“Justin Taylor, nice to meet you.”  
  
“The pleasure’s all mine.”  
  
You felt like you were supposed to be ending the conversation as you both rotated to stare at the painting again, “Well, thank you, for taking such an interest in this piece. I’m sorry it’s been sold.”  
  
His smile was kind and unassuming when you found yourself looking at his face again, “Well, if you’re interested, Mr. Taylor, I can think of a way you can make it up to me.”  
  
“Justin.”  
  
“Justin. Very well.”  
  
You didn’t turn away from his steady gaze, “What did you have in mind?”  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Aerosmith’s _Dude, Looks Like a Lady,_ Prince’s _1999,_ Paul Simon’s _You Can Call Me Al, Loves Me Like a Rock, Hearts and Bones,_ Greenday’s _Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)_ , Looking Glass’ _Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl,_ Heather Small’s _Proud,_ and Blondie’s _Call Me._


	10. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 7-Latency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 9/11/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 7-LATENCY  
  
** DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV  
 _when the scent of her lingers_  
 _and temptation's strong_  
  
It was a mistake from the very beginning. And you knew it, but you told yourself at the time that it was harmless. Sitting in your posh office in New York City analyzing patients while they lay on your black leather couch underneath the mural you’d commissioned Justin to paint had somehow become some sick kind of torture.  
  
It was a habit you’d adopted in your residency, a way to get through long days with barely-committed-to-the-therapeutic-process patients. Back then, your office never had a window, so you’d always choose a painting you liked to hang on the wall above your patient’s perch. It gave you a focal point while housewives droned on about their ungrateful children and their cheating husbands. Anytime a patient actually attempted to catch your eye, which, let’s face it, only the truly dedicated patients do, you could easily meet their glance before they ever realized you’d been a million miles away for the last fifteen minutes.

 

But this mural that Justin had painted, you found yourself unable to look away, sometimes even getting hard underneath your college-ruled white, never yellow, legal pad. When you engaged in psycho-analysis, you preferred a blank slate.

“Dr. Cartwright, are you all right today? You seem preoccupied.” The voice of your patient, one that was more astute than most.

You looked at your cleverly concealed timer: three minutes to go. This would ordinarily be the time when you’d begin summing up the session and laying the groundwork for the next one, but it was rather difficult to sum up what you hadn’t even heard. So you went with your old standby,

“You know, we’ve done some really important work today, but unfortunately, our time is up.” Then you’d smile your kind, benevolent doctor smile. The one you used to practice in the mirror during med school. “We’ll pick up here next time.”

Your patients always knew when their fifty minutes were up because you put the cap back on your pen and uncrossed your legs. And once Ms. Miller and her overly applied eye shadow left your office, you found yourself staring at the mural again. You were glad you’d cleared your afternoon.

You had problems of your own.

*******************  
 **DR. JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
 _your eyes have died but you see more than I,  
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky_

Anytime you got a call from Daniel saying that he was at Mickey’s at a booth in the back, you knew it would mean the loss of at least three billable hours. You’d known him since your second year of residency, and now, almost thirteen years later, he was still exactly the same: an overly intelligent, handsome (but not more than you), masochistic man with a penchant to gravitate toward the troubled masses. You figured it was because he found them eerily familiar.

And today was no exception.

Daniel always ended up at Mickey’s when he was “spiraling” because it was essentially a straight man’s bar. And straight men were usually the last ones to visit a shrink, and therefore, the least likely to recognize one of New York’s prominent psychiatrists holding court with a harem of Bloody Marys—the only women he could truly ever love. It was against your policy to drink anything you couldn’t see through.

You had to walk through the saturating cigarette smoke of the pub’s patrons in order to get inside, and once you did, you saw him immediately. He always sat facing the door, another in his list of neuroses, stirring his drink with his celery stick, and staring at it like it was going to tell him the meaning of life any second.

You wished.

You looked at your watch when you sat down, shrink’s habit.

He greeted you with a forced smile on his face, “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome. But before you begin to lament, do you think I should buy those tassled loafers we saw last weekend when we were shopping?”

“Oh right, let’s get the important stuff out of the way first. Why are you wearing your evening cologne in the daytime?” Daniel was frighteningly attuned to all aromas and odors.

“I ran out of my day cologne.” _Duh._

“Are you kidding me? I just got you that bottle for your birthday. What’re you doing, drinking it?” Masochistic and bitchy. Joy. You had your work cut out for you.

“Yes, I drank it—on the rocks no less.”

“You should buy those loafers.”

“You think so? You really like them?”

“No, I hate them, but you won’t shut up about it until you buy them, so just buy them. Who cares if you never wear them?”

“I think I have ‘shoe guilt,’ or something. Makes me feel like Sarah Jessica Parker on _Sex and the City._ ”

“No, that’s me, unlucky in love. Hell, unlucky in life. My day has sucked.” The waitress arrived and you ordered a gin and tonic. Daniel asked for his third Bloody Mary. You shook your head at the waitress and told her to bring him Juan Valdez. Daniel never had the stomach to handle the ladies for very long.

“All right, start the clock. I’m listening,” you announced as his coffee arrived.

He stirred a shit load of cream into it and began his discourse with a sigh, “Have you ever felt like you loved someone so much, and they weren’t _rejecting_ your love, but they really weren’t accepting it either? Like there’s all this love between the two of you but it just doesn’t mesh?”

“You mean like your love is ‘A positive’ and his is ‘O negative,’ or something?”

He nodded, “Yes, exactly.”

“Nope, never have. Maybe you need a love transfusion.”

“Fuck you.”

“Christ, what’s the problem? I thought you were spending your afternoon at the brownstone supervising the arrival of the easels, computers, and milk crates.”

“I’m not having milk crates in my home. I bought him a chair. A Herman Miller.”

“Whoa. This _is_ serious.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Why are you here and not there?”

“I’m waiting for him to call me back. I took the afternoon off to help them.”

“Well, it’s only after two.”

“It’s not even that really—"

“Wait, _them_? Did you really give in to him?”

Daniel huffed, “It was the only way he’d accept my offer. He said she comes with him or forget it.”

“Why? Because of her crazy brother?”

“More or less. It’s complicated. He wouldn’t let her stay there by herself, and my second floor is twice as big as what they have now. And her brother’s not crazy, he’s sick. Schizophrenic.”

“He needs to be medicated.”

“Right Jon, you try telling that to a homeless guy. I told Harper I’d get him free meds, but she says he won’t take them. Anytime he has money or pills or liquor or anything on him, it just makes him a target.”

“Okay, so now you have Justin and Harper and occasionally her homeless brother moving into your second floor?”

“Harper’s there now with that muscular guy. He’s probably slamming furniture into my perfect walls as we speak.”

You finished your drink. “So why are you so fucking miserable?” You took the paper umbrella they should never have given him in a Bloody Mary and studied it, opening and closing it until it broke. “You wanted him underfoot and you got him.”

“Be careful what you wish for…” The waitress refilled his coffee.

“Let’s just cut through the shit, Daniel. Do you love him? Is that it?”

“I adore your bedside manner.”

“Answer me.”

Daniel stared at the dark wood paneling above your booth, “I’m trying not to love him because I can just tell he doesn’t love me.”

“Well, sometimes love takes time.”

“That’s not it. Not for him. He’s one of those people, Jon, one of those with an unbelievably pure heart.”

You rolled your eyes, “Not to mention a deep ass.”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“And a mouth that sucks cock like a Hoover.”

“Cut it out………..Besides, I do most of the sucking.” There was a silence between the two of you as you surveyed your friend. If he was spending more time on his knees than his lover-of-late, he was a goner. Hook. Line. And sinker.

……

……

You shook your head, “You know, Daniel, you always do this, every single fucking time.”

“Do what?”

You’d lost count of how many times you’d had this conversation with him, “Superglue your heart to a young, conflicted soul like a goddamn barnacle.” Daniel leaned on his arm. “You ‘fall in love’ with some artistic, beautiful, young guy who is _always_ upfront with you about what _he_ wants, and then expend every ounce of your energy trying to turn the relationship into something it’s not.”

The sculptor from last summer who gave incredible hand jobs. The ‘performance artist’ who wooed him with his monologue from _Nuts._ God bless Barbra Streisand, but come on. And then the ‘extreme artist’ who poured paint on his ‘canvas’ (otherwise known as the sidewalk or the street) and then painted by running over it with his skateboard. That guy got on your fucking nerves.

“I can’t help it, Jon.”

You ignored his comment, “And you’re not in love, you’re fucking infatuated because he’s probably said your name _once_ while you were fucking. Right?”

Daniel looked away from you, his jaw setting firm, “He’s never once said my name.”

“Well, there you go.” You felt a hole in your stomach because you knew you’d just hurt his feelings. Daniel could take such good care of everyone but himself. “You don’t think you deserve to be happy, so you do this on purpose.”

He fought with you, “It’s not like that. It’s different this time. I really care about him, Jonathon.”

“I know you do, but I don’t think he cares _as much_ about you. The scales of Lady Love are not evenly balanced. And you overlook that, every time, because he’s young. You won’t ever admit that just maybe he does know—"

“Look, I’m not in denial. Don’t insult me. I know what this is. I know he doesn’t love me. It just doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.”  
……

……

“Of course you do. It’s _painful_. That’s what you love, Daniel. You’re in love with _pain_ , not him.” You waited for some sign of acceptance on his face. He usually always came around by the time you got to his masochistic need to be hurt. But you got nothing. The waitress refilled his coffee and offered to bring you another drink. You asked for water. He waited for her to walk away. You wondered why he bothered, the two of you had had this identical conversation at least ten times in here over the years. You were sure she knew it by heart.

You decided to try a different approach, taking a deep breath, “Let’s look at this a different way.” He looked hopeful for a brief second so you pressed on, “You are not Gepetto and he’s not Pinocchio. He doesn’t need you to make him a real boy—"

“You’re _such_ an ass sometimes.”

“Sometimes an ass is what you need. He’s already a living, breathing person, not a puppet that exists for your amusement and affection, or even guidance. If he wants to remain just like he is—"

“Would you shut the fuck up with your metaphors?”

You hit a nerve.

“Got a better one? Got a way to keep this from happening every time you see what you think is an unfinished product? Because I’d love to hear it.”

…..

…..

 

He executed a perfect psychotherapeutic-change-of-subject, “That’s not even the worst of it.”

“Oh Christ, it gets worse?”

“I lost out on that painting of his that I’d put a deposit on. The one over at _Frequency_.”

“Lost out? Why’d your check bounce?” You laughed. Daniel’s checks hadn’t bounced since the day he was born.

“She gave me some bullshit excuse, but some asshole basically came in and bought it out from under me.”

“So, now we’ve even got Stromboli in the picture. This is priceless.”

“Give the goddamn fairy tale thing a rest.”

It was all becoming clear to you now, “That’s why you’re a fucking mess today. You’ve lost the artist and his art, your window into his damaged soul. You can’t win.”

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, doctor. Will you take a check?”

“It’s so tragically poetic really, he won’t give you what you want, so you steal it by buying his paintings or commissioning him to let his soul bleed all over the wall of your office. So tell me, Dr. Freud, what deep truth did the strokes of this artist’s paintbrush reveal to you?”

“It’s not just that he doesn’t love me. I’m pretty sure……he’s in love with someone else.”

You looked at your watch. Whoa. You got it out of him with five minutes to spare.

*******************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _I'm not the kind of girl  
who gives up just like that_

You met Harper at your usual place, the coffee shop a couple of blocks away from what was about to be your former studio. The cinnamon piece of hard candy she had in her mouth clanked between her teeth as she took the key to Daniel’s place from you.

“Tell Zeek to be careful. Daniel’s afraid he’ll bump into his egg-shell white walls.”

“Oh, god, tell Daniel to chill. It’ll be fine.”

“Could you stop making that clanking noise? It drives me crazy, and you do it all the time.” She crunched the candy hard and the smell of cinnamon filled the small space between the two of you at your booth.

“Ever notice how you and I are always on the rag at the same time, Justin?”

“Make two copies of the key so I can give the original back to him.”

“God, you’re all business today. What’s your damage?”

“I’ve got a lot of little things to do today so I can get back and help you guys. And please tell Zeek that I want to be the one to move my own computer. We shouldn’t have waited until the last day of our lease to do this.”

“Why? Did you want to pick up and relocate when we were both in the middle of gigantic pieces? Break our flow?” The waitress came and offered you coffee. You took it. Harper refused, saying it was way too fucking hot for coffee. She wanted lemonade.

“Did you go by Daniel’s office and look at the mural? It’s finished.”

“Yes, I did. I went yesterday.”

“Well?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, the piece spoke to me.”

Your eyes lit up, “It did?”

“Yes, it said, ‘Justin painted me because a very rich doctor is paying him butt loads of cash to exorcise his demons and subsequently let him in his ass.’” You flicked the balled up wrapper from her straw at her face.

“Would you _please_ stop fucking around and tell me what you really think of the painting?”

Harper got a serious look on her face as she crossed her arms over her chest, “All right. I think it has a rather ‘quiet violence’ about it. Whatever that means.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“Aw, Eggo, they can’t all be winners.”

“Go to hell.”

“You know, right before I went in, I saw Daniel’s last patient. He was _hot,_ but probably too old for Daniel. He was at least twenty-five. Suppose he’ll fuck him, too?”

“Whaddya mean, ‘fuck him, too?’ I’m _not_ his patient.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, now, don’t get pissy with me or we’ll have to put you back in that straight jacket you love so much.” It wouldn’t surprise you at all if Harper had a straight jacket. It seemed like a natural part of her wardrobe.

“You know, I don’t see why you have to make fun of me. It’s an unhealthy compulsion with you, really.”

Her eyes opened wide as she laughed at you, “Oh, look who’s diagnosing people now, and just because he’s fucking a shrink.”

You shook your head at her, “You are _so_ dead. Don’t _ever_ ask me to critique anymore of your work—"

“Oh, take your Midol. You know, I can’t wait to get in that new space. We have a skylight! Can you believe it? Natural light.”

“You mean Daniel has a skylight.”

“Fine.”

……

……

Harper always made you nervous when she’d lean forward and stare at you with a twinkle in her eye, “So, did you top Daniel last night?”

“That’s _none_ of your business.”

She took the rubber band from around her wrist and put her hair up, “None of my business? Since when? I can’t even count how many times you’ve watched Zeek fuck me…..and vice versa.”

“Six.”

“Aren’t you quite the statistician?”

“I try.”

“That’s fine. Don’t tell me. You’ll get trashed one night and it’ll all come pouring out of you. I’ll just wait. I’m very patient.” She rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes at you, “So, think I should let Zeek fuck me up the ass? He wants to.”

You put your menu down. You’d lost your appetite. “I think that would fall into the category of a personal decision.”

“I know, but I want your advice. You _love_ it.”

“Wow, that’s news: _Homosexual Likes It Up the Ass._ ”

She smiled her biggest, most egregious smile at you, “I just figured if I wanted advice about it, I’d ask the expert. And by the way, your cell phone’s ringing.” You hadn’t even heard it. “It’s probably Daniel fretting because the mural is crooked.” Harper had this presumptuous habit of always identifying who she _thought_ was on the phone. Course, she was usually right.

But not this time.

You looked down at the screen, _1 missed call. Brian._

Harper was starting to get up from the table, “I have to pee. If they come to take our order, I want a BLT on wheat, no mayo, with fruit instead of French fries.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The table shifted as she got up, “And another lemonade.” You nodded. You were calling Brian back. When Harper returned from the bathroom, you told her you had to go. “That was Daniel?”

“Yeah, he wants me to meet him at his office…….and have lunch with him.”

“ _Fine._ I’ll get mine to go then. But, you still have to help me decide about Zeek and the anal thing.”

“I hate to tell you this, but ‘Zeek and the Anal Thing’ sounds like the name of a dead punk rock band.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Maybe that’s a sign that I shouldn’t do it.” Harper believed everything was a ‘sign.’

“Well, if you do decide to do it, _don’t_ use my lube.”

Harper busted out laughing and told you, “Don’t worry, Eggo, I’m gonna get some that smells like strawberries.”

Now you’d never be able eat waffles _or_ strawberries again.

Bitch.

***************  
 _whatever Lola wants, Lola gets  
and little man, little Lola wants you_

After Harper paid for her sandwich, you walked outside with her and parted ways. Once you were sure she was far enough down the street, you ducked back inside the coffee shop and sat down to wait for Brian. You couldn’t believe he’d just called you out of the blue, especially considering you hadn’t seen him since you left, eighteen months ago. You couldn’t believe it’d been that long.

You felt something flip over inside you when you saw him get out of the cab; he looked better than you even remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat when he strode into the coffee shop, took off his sunglasses, and looked right at you, a beautiful smile on his face. You smiled back.

He looked so fucking beautiful. For some reason, it was hard to imagine that he was there to see _you,_ like you hadn’t been with him, fucked him, loved him for so many years. You instantly wished you’d dressed a little nicer as he sat down. The tips of your fingers tingled with an overwhelming urge to reach across the table and touch him.

But you didn’t.

The tone of his voice on the phone and when he’d greeted you, even the way he just seemed to gaze at you, was starting to make you hard. You tried to think about something else.

It didn’t work.

The familiar scent of his cologne drifted across the space between you, making the situation almost unbearable. You knew you were talking to him, making passable conversation, but the only thing he said that registered was, “I could stay somewhere for a while, if you want.”

He wanted you, after all this time. It felt so good, like such a relief. It felt like a dream.

It wasn’t until you stepped out in the hot summer sun that you were able to convince yourself that it wasn’t. He put his hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the faceless people on the sidewalk. You couldn’t feel the sun on your skin. You could only feel him, and then his hand was gone. He told you to lead and you walked in silence with him, praying that there was somewhere for the two of you to go on this street, this street that you walked down every day but suddenly couldn’t remember a damn thing about.

You were surprised when you found yourself standing in front of a hotel. You’d forgotten this, what it felt like to walk into a room with him, to be the one on his arm, how you used to take that for granted. His voice was soft, his hand on your shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

Maybe you should have felt cheap or easy or just ridiculous to be perched on a lavish sofa in a beautiful hotel waiting for him to buy a few hours for the two of you. But if that’s what it felt like, it’d never felt so good.

The elevator ride was quiet and private, the air seeming to thicken between you as you passed each floor. You were grateful that he virtually steered you to the room. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, your heart was beating so loudly.

***************  
 _always someone marches brave  
here beneath my skin_

He stood in front of you after you put your bag down, his eyes resting quietly on your face, and you felt your hands start to wander up his body all by themselves. Brian wrapped his fingers around your wrists as your hands parked themselves around his neck. The excitement began to gather in your body as he began to lean down, when you knew he was going to kiss you. His lips were so soft, so perfect. He tasted like the answer to every question you’d ever had.

And you had so many.

But you ignored them because you had to. The blood was rushing through your body too fast, making it impossible to hold onto them.

It was mostly the way he was looking at you that made you feel like you were floating, his body seeming to respond to your touch even more than you remembered, flooding you with an overwhelming urge to please him. You felt his breath in your hair as you unbuttoned his shirt. He gasped when your fingers finally found his chest. And then, before you knew it, there were words coming out of your mouth,

“I miss you.”

You pressed your lips against him, letting them trace the outline of his pecs, listening to him moan as you invited his nipple into your mouth. It was always like this between you, you thought, no matter where you were—a hotel room in New York City six and a half years ago, the loft, the house in front of the fire, or right this very moment. This grateful intensity churning between the two of you, determined to be nurtured, yet completely willing and able to sustain itself. It was more powerful than both of you. And you knew you’d never stop craving it.

Or him.

You opened his pants and slid your hand inside, his smooth cock dampening your palm.

“Justin.”

His hands tightened around your arms as he said your name, his voice reverberating through your entire body, overwhelming you as you realized how much you’d missed just hearing him say it. You answered him as he held onto you, pushing into your hand,

“I know.”

“Christ.”

He started to come in your hand, quickly raising your face to his to kiss you, to push into you before it was over. You finished undressing him, smiling when he yanked his tie over his head, cast it aside, and moved toward you as you fell back onto the bed. You tore your pants off like they were tissue paper, the anticipation of his body weighing on yours stampeding through you like a herd of wild animals. One look at his face and you knew it was barreling through him, too. You reached for him as he lowered himself on top of you, the warmth of his skin somehow soothing the burn inside you. How one fire could eclipse another you’d never understand.

And you didn’t care, you just knew that you wanted it, wanted to show him what it meant to you to touch him, to put your hands on him, to feel him so heavy and all-encompassing. He kissed you, and your hunger for him commandeered your body, sent your fingers through his hair, heard him almost growl as his hand skimmed down your torso, pushing between your legs. The latent intimacy that had hibernated between the two of you for a year and a half began to shed its skin, bit by bit, until it was totally unmasked and in control. You arched into his hand, letting it pry you wide open for him.

He moved down your body, freeing your fingers from his hair, spreading your legs as he settled between them, the sounds coming from both of you mixing together in the chilling room.

“Brian.”

You closed your eyes as his mouth started to move down your inner thigh, wanting so badly to hold him, to kiss him, as he ran his nose down your cock and over your balls, as you wrapped your legs around his shoulders, your feet softly rubbing his back. He drew your scent inside him with a deep breath right before covering you with a wet warmth that scurried through you like a bolt of electricity. He forced your legs up, and you held them for him, his mouth soaking your cock again before his fingers parted you, exposing you so completely, so willingly. The part of you that loved him and needed him started rushing to the surface, battling to overtake you.

Since the first night you met him, Brian had always had this way of listening to your body as he touched you, a way of knowing seconds before you did what you needed. You held your breath as he rimmed you, dying for the moment when he’d invade your body with his tongue. You knew the second it was going to happen because you felt the tips of his fingers gently circling your hole.

“Uh, god, _yes_ ,” you told him as the moist heat of his mouth pushed inside you. With every brush of his tongue, your ache for him began to choke you, making you beg for him like you wanted to, "Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”

The sight and the sound of him tearing the condom wrapper drenched you with an insatiable desire to have all of him all at once. He thrust inside of you in one smooth motion, as if he knew how loud the roaring was underneath your skin, as if he knew what had to be done.

He did.

“Oh god, Brian.”

He fought you as you tried to clamp your legs around his waist and you moaned as he spoke to you through his kiss,”Keep them spread. Just like that.”

Your feet slid on the bedspread as you wrapped your arms around him, as you did what he wanted. There was nothing more beautiful, more contagious than that raw, unrestrained fuck, than listening to Brian’s breathy grunts against your neck, than feeling him thick and warm inside you, all of him swarming over all of you with such determined intentions.

He fucked you with a quiet violence that made you want to scream.

You heard your voice pleading with him as you felt your orgasm racing for the exits, begged him to finish undressing you. You came watching your shirt fly over your head. He didn’t stop you when you grabbed him, squeezing him as your orgasm pulsed out of you; he held you, his arms tightening as he came never taking his eyes off your face. You were panting as he collapsed on top of you, the warmth of his body blanketing you as you tried to steel yourself to make the room stop spinning.

***************  
 _I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free_

Everything became quiet as you held him, your hands rubbing up and down his back. You listened to the sounds of satisfaction spreading through his body, kissing the perfect curve between his neck and his shoulder. He hummed in your ear, “Mmm.”

You thought that maybe he was going to fall asleep, but then he was pulling out. You pulled the covers down, lying on the cool, white sheets, watching him as he laid down beside you. He reached for you in silence, pulling you against him, your face pressed snuggly against his chest, his long fingers gently combing through your hair.

You felt his low voice drift through his body, “You doing okay?”

You wanted to tell him that you were okay if okay meant finding small parts of him in everybody you met, everybody you fucked, everything you painted, everything you tried to hang onto. You wanted to tell him that New York was amazing, that you’d never been so achingly happy in your life, that the things you were experiencing would stay with you forever, and that you hoped that maybe somehow, he would, too.

Only you didn’t know when, and you didn’t know how, and even though he wasn’t asking you for an answer, you felt like you should have one.

Your silence in his arms was enough for him to go by, “It’s okay, Justin. This is okay.” He pressed his lips against your forehead and held you tighter.

You didn’t know how this could be okay, how anything that felt this good and hurt so bad could be okay. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you figured you had to trust him.

“Thanks.”

You thought that nothing could surpass the intense feelings you had for Brian when he was fucking you, but this, just being in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall and his patient hands on your body, made you want to dissolve right then and there. His hold on you for that hour was what it’d always been, a protective shelter with open doors.

You stared at your fingers as they traced random paths on his chest until you felt his hand tighten on the back of your head. He kissed you with a peaceful, needy aggression. When you opened your eyes, they landed on the clock radio by the bed. _3:37 p.m._ You had less than an hour and half to get to your studio, pack your computer, and move out. You had to go.

“I have to be somewhere.”

You thought you felt relief in Brian’s body when you were the one to make the break. You didn’t want him to have to do it. He watched you get dressed, fanning his hand on your back when you sat back down on the bed beside him. You made your apologies for not being able to stay longer. You didn’t know why you bothered, he clearly didn’t need them.

You both knew there was nothing to be sorry for when you kissed him good-bye.

And when you stepped off the elevator and into the hotel lobby all alone, you felt the sensation that had flooded you when you’d walked in here with him, the sensation of being desired and chosen by him dissipating like cooling sweat on your skin. You fought the urge to run back upstairs and throw yourself in his arms, stepping out onto the hot sidewalk instead, the sun quickly burning the reluctant tears off of your face.

 

Lyrics taken from Elton John’s _Sacrifice_ and _Daniel,_ Blondie’s _The Tide is High_ , Sarah Vaughn’s _Whatever Lola Wants_ , k.d. lang’s _Constant Craving_ , and Elton John’s _Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me._


	11. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 8-Accomodations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is in 2 posts on Live Journal, but here, it fit as one.)  
> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 9/30/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 8-ACCOMODATIONS  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
_an enchanted moment  
and it sees me through_  
  
There was something cosmically evil about having to listen to Maya fuck her boyfriend, _Brian_ , the night of the same day that you’d actually fucked your _Brian_. You tried turning up your television, wearing headphones, and putting your head inside your pillowcase. You even tried to jack off in sync with them, but that just made it worse.  
  
“ _Brian.”_  
  
You ended up rummaging through your closet until you found it: one of Brian’s twenty thousand black shirts that you’d sort of stolen and kept in a Ziploc bag for moments such as this. _Desperate times called for desperate measures._  
  
Brian had whispered in your ear that final night as you lay underneath him, “I know you took my shirt, Sunshine.”  
  
“Shhh.”  
  
“It took you five years to graduate from underwear theft to outerwear theft. Bravo.”  
  
“I left you my posse shirt.”  
  
“I’d rather have your posse panties.”  
  
You’d walked commando through the airport that night hoping that no one decided to search you.

  
****************  
_there are worse things I could do,  
than go with a boy or two_  
  
When Harper showed up at your door the next morning, you had your duffle bag in your hand. Walking anywhere with Harper was annoying because she either walked ahead of you or constantly tapped you with her arm. When you got to Daniel’s, to your new studio, he was long gone. Daniel started his sessions at six twenty in the morning for what he called his ‘commuter patients.’ You called and left him a message: _”Hey. Listen, my roommate’s boyfriend is staying with us for the week, so if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay here, just for the week. If it’s not, just let me know and I’ll make other arrangements.”_ He called you back forty-five minutes later and said it was fine.  
  
Harper mumbled under her breath as she unpacked her supplies, “Like he was gonna say ‘no.’”  
  
“Don’t start.”  
  
She made a production out of zipping her lip.  
  
The two of you got quiet about half an hour later having unpacked enough stuff to actually get to work. You sat down at your computer and e-doodled. Harper was humming to herself, a sign that she was flowing. After nothing was coming to you, you went out front on Daniel’s stoop and smoked a cigarette.  
  
You stared down at your sneakers and thought of Brian’s shoes from the day before, how they were perfectly polished, black and shiny. How there wasn’t a hair out of place on his head. Seeing him in that suit had stirred up something inside you. Something vulnerable, something that felt brand new even though it wasn’t. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you wanted it to go either go away or channel through you, and it wouldn’t. It insisted on staying put.  
  
_I’ll see you in your dreams._  
  
****************  
_heart and soul,  
I fell in love with you heart and soul_  
  
Daniel came home from work that afternoon with his arms full of groceries. “I thought I’d cook dinner.”  
  
You helped him put the groceries away, “Sounds good.”  
  
“So how was your first day in your new studio?” he wanted to know.  
  
“Fine. I think Harper made a lot more progress than I did, but it was fine.”  
  
“My day was like that, too. Not one breakthrough.”  
  
You laughed, “It’s a little bit of a stretch, art to psychiatry. Don’t you think?”  
  
“Not really. Getting people to see the parts of themselves that they hide is an art. I’m over-simplifying, but…” The phone rang and interrupted him. “Can you get that? My hands are wet.”  
  
“Sure.” It was his answering service. You handed him the phone, “It’s your service.”  
  
“Shit.” He took the phone from you, “Yes, this is Dr. Cartwright. Okay. Okay. I’ll call in some Atavan, and I’ll follow up with her tomorrow. Thanks.” He disappeared into his office to make the call and returned to the kitchen, taking the broccoli out of your hands.  
  
“Everything okay?”  
  
“Delayed breakthrough. Happens sometimes. A side effect of psycho-analysis.”  
  
“Oh.” You started cutting up carrots for salad and he asked you if you washed them, “I rinsed them off.”  
  
“Give them to me. Carrots are filthy. Here, chop the tomatoes.” You switched with him and started cutting a tomato. You kept waiting for him to give you his opinion about how the tomato should be chopped, but he didn’t. He just scrubbed the carrots. When he finished and starting chopping them, you started laughing. “What’s so funny?”  
  
“Didn’t you ever see that episode of _Frasier_ where Niles is chopping vegetables or something in the kitchen to the tune of _Heart and Soul?_ ”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You remind me of Niles. I just realized that.”  
  
“Yes, but in the end, Niles got the girl.” You stared at him as he went back to the carrots  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You could tell by the vigor with which he was chopping them that there was something bothering him. Nobody chopped carrots with that much intensity. You didn’t have to be a shrink to see that. So you asked him,  
  
“What’s bothering you?”  
  
He turned off the water and turned to you, wet carrot in hand, “I’m in love with you.” Your stomach dropped into your sneakers.  
  
“Daniel.”  
  
He laughed when you said his name, “And I know you don’t love me. That’s one of the few times I’ve even heard you say my name.”  
  
You laid your knife on the cutting board, “I’ve never lied to you.”  
  
“I know. I lied to myself. That’s a hundred times worse, believe me.” He walked into the dining room and started laying out silverware and plates with purpose.  
  
You broke lettuce into a big bowl and asked him, “You want me to leave?”  
  
“No…I should, but I don’t.”  
  
You walked into the dining room and sat the completed bowl of salad on the table, “I’m going outside. I need a cigarette.”  
  
When you came back in, Daniel was sitting on the sofa in the living room flipping through the most recent issue of _American Home._  
  
“Aren’t you going to eat?” you asked him, sitting down at the table.  
  
He got up from the couch and came over to sit down, “I was waiting for you.”  
  
The two of you ate salad in silence.  
  
****************  
_it's enough for this wide-eyed wanderer  
that we got this far_  
  
You were about halfway through with your salad when you got the courage to break the silence between the two of you, “Why did you offer me this space if you knew you felt this way?”  
  
“I suppose because I’m a masochist.”  
  
“Well, I can’t stay here.”  
  
“Yes, you can. You’re not going back to that rat hole. That place is disgusting—"  
  
_I want you safe._  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I don’t think we should fuck anymore.”  
  
He took a sip of his wine, “I agree.” But you knew he didn’t.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Daniel, I’m sorry. I feel like shit.”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Right. It’s just-- I never meant for this to happen.”  
  
“I’m going to heat up some chicken.” He got up from the table and started moving around the kitchen. You got up and leaned in the doorway.  
  
“Daniel, I’m serious.”  
  
“I know you are.” He put the chicken in the oven. “Come here.” You followed him into the living room where you both sat on the sofa. You felt like you should uncross your arms, but they just wouldn’t. Daniel straightened his arm along the back of the sofa and rested his fingers on your shoulder, “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Part of the reason I fell so hard for you is because you’re so honest, so uncomplicated. I’ve known this for a while, that it wasn’t going to work out, I just couldn’t—"  
  
“You think I’m uncomplicated?”  
  
Daniel looked you right in the eye, “Yes. I think you’re uncomplicated. I think you feel things in their purest form. You probably always have. You’re young, but it’s not completely a product of your age.”  
  
“I’m not—"  
  
“Let me finish. There’s nothing worse than loving someone who doesn’t love you. Than trying to think of what you can do, what you can say, to change that. It’s all-consuming. Hopefully, you’ll never have to experience it.”  
  
Your arms suddenly uncrossed, “I know exactly how that feels.”  
  
_Look, I told you, I’m not your lover, I’m not your partner, I’m not even your friend. You’re not anything to me._  
  
Daniel smiled at you, his kind doctor smile, the same one he’d sported the night you met him—and a dead giveaway that he was about to change the subject, “You know, several of my patients have commented on your mural in my office. They really seem to like it.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah, they often ask me what it means or if it has a name.”  
  
“Which it doesn’t.”  
  
“That’s what I tell them. I tell them it means whatever they want it to mean.”  
  
“What do you think it means?" you asked, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa.  
  
He patted you on the shoulder, “I charge for that.”  
  
You cut your eyes at him, and he laughed at you as he walked over to the television and popped in a tape, “ _Frasier._ I’ve got the whole series on tape.”  
  
You got comfortable on the sofa and within ten minutes, you were both laughing, “You know, it’s completely immaterial whether or not Niles gets the girl—"  
  
“Because he’s gay,” Daniel added.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
The chicken burned.  
  
****************  
_and it seems to me you lived your life  
like a candle in the wind_  
  
Harper was usually at the studio around nine in the morning. She let herself in and wandered into Daniel’s guest room where you were pulling on your clothes. She stood in the doorway, ignoring the fact that you were bitching at her about privacy.  
  
“We have to go back today. Before lunch.”  
  
You knew what she meant, “We do? Why today?”  
  
“Full moon last night.”  
  
“Oh. Wow. I never put that together.”  
  
“Let’s just go have breakfast somewhere or something. I don’t feel like working.”  
  
You could tell by the look on her face that she was serious. Her mood always changed so drastically on the days she knew she was going to see Alan. As the two of you walked to the coffee shop, she didn’t walk too fast or bump your arm or anything. She was a million miles away, almost stepping in front of moving car as you went to cross the street.  
  
“Harper, watch where you’re going.” She didn’t eat much at the coffee shop, mostly just pushed her food around her plate, “Are you okay?”  
  
She twirled her hair between her index and middle finger and sighed, “Yeah.”  
  
“You’re worried? That he won’t show?”  
  
“Yeah. He always has, just like clockwork, but I always worry. Something could’ve happened to him since the last time I saw him, and I wouldn’t even know.”  
  
“I’m sure he’s okay.” It seemed like a really stupid thing to say, since it was basically a lie. You weren’t sure of anything.  
  
The two of you walked back to your old studio. Once you got there, Harper announced, “Well, I guess now we just wait.” She sat down, leaning back against the graffiti-covered wall across from the door. You could see the new occupant of your old place inside. He was setting up a projector or something. Harper’s toes flexed in her sandals as she told you she meant to paint her toenails last night, but she forgot. “God, they need it.” You offered her a cigarette, “Too hot to smoke.”  
  
Harper suggested that you take turns naming all of the places you’d ever had sex to kill time. You won by a landslide in five minutes.  
  
“You’ve had sex in an elevator?” she asked incredulously.  
  
“Several. There’s an elevator in Brian’s building.”  
  
“And in a diner?”  
  
“Anyplace there’s a bathroom, you can pretty much figure we’ve fucked there.”  
  
“Next time, we’ll make it harder. You’ll have to name them in alphabetical order.”  
  
_The Adonis, alley, annex of the GLC, Babylon, backroom, bathroom, baths, bed, chair, closet, corvette, Debbie’s, desk, diner, elevator, floor, Gravel Pit, hotels, Jeep, Kinnetik, kitchen, Lindsay’s, loft, mansion, office, shower, VIP lounge……_  
  
“I’m ready. I can do it now.”  
  
“Go.”  
  
“The Adonis, alley, annex of the GLC, Babylon, backroom, Alan.”  
  
“You fucked up.”  
  
“No, here he comes.” You pointed to him walking toward the two of you. You couldn’t believe she was right. He _was_ just like clockwork. “Can you explain to me how he knows there was a full moon when he doesn’t even know what day it is?”  
  
“It was always a big deal to my mom when we were kids, and I think he can feel it. He’s very in tune with things like that.” Harper got up off the ground and started walking toward him, “Hey.”  
  
He smiled, “Josie.” They hugged when they got to each other. You noticed Alan’s fingernails. They were really long. Harper told him he needed a bath. “Duh.”  
  
She pulled him by the hand over to the sidewalk in front of the studio, “Okay, but first we have to talk.”  
  
He laughed, “Am I in trouble already?” He seemed more lucid today than usual. Alan looked at you and sort of smiled. “Hey, Waffle.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Harper held his hand as she talked to him, “This isn’t my studio anymore. I’ve moved.”  
  
Alan’s face immediately tensed, “With Dad? You moved back in with Dad?” He started to pull away from her. Now, you knew why she was holding on to him.  
  
She pointed to you and laughed, “No, with Waffle. We’re going to take you and show you where it is, so don’t come here anymore looking for me.”  
  
Alan looked in the window at the man inside, “Who’s that?”  
  
“He’s the new renter.” Just then the guy looked out the window, straight at Harper. Two seconds later, the door opened. He looked like a cross between Ashton Kutcher and Topher Grace. He was kind of hot.  
  
Alan seemed to panic as he came face to face with the man, “I’m not going to bother you.”  
  
“Can I help you?”  
  
Harper stood in front of Alan, and extended her hand, “Hi, I’m Harper. My friend and I used to rent this space.”  
  
“Okay. Is there something I can do for you?” He had on this brown suede jacket shirt thing that you wanted to steal when he wasn’t looking. His jacket and his hair were almost the exact same color.  
  
“This is my brother, Alan.” He tried to look at Alan, but Alan wouldn’t meet his eyes. Harper continued, “He’s a drifter, and every once in a while, he’d come here to see me. So, today I’m just showing him that I don’t work here anymore, so he’ll understand, and he won’t bother you.”  
  
“I won’t bother you,” Alan said to the cement.  
  
The guy’s face seemed to soften, “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you.” He nodded at you and you sort of waved.  
  
Harper was smiling like she was a cruise director or something, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam. We don’t need to hang around or anything, so we’re gonna go. Thanks for not being a dick about all of this.”  
  
Sam kind of laughed, “I’m not usually a dick, so, um, thanks, I guess.”  
  
Harper looked embarrassed. It dawned on you that that was the first time you’d ever seen her blush, “Yeah, well, okay. We gotta go.” She backed up into Alan and stepped on his foot.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
Harper pushed him a little, like he was the only reason she couldn’t get moving, “Come on, let’s go.”  
  
You looked at Sam as Harper started walking away, “Um, bye. Nice to meet you, Sam.”  
  
Sam looked right through you like you were transparent, “It was nice to meet you, Harper…..Come back sometime when you can stay longer.”  
  
****************  
_but I know what I'm needing  
and I don't want to waste more time_  
  
Sam, it turns out, was a documentary filmmaker, and according to Harper, “He’s so fucking amazing, Justin. You just wouldn’t believe how _raw_ and honest his work is.”  
  
“Oh, I’d believe it.”  
  
“And he wants to make a documentary about the homeless. He wants Alan to take him to the tunnels.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah, but I told him no way. First of all, he’d never get his camera back, and second of all, I explained to him how they don’t exactly want visitors down there.”  
  
It seemed like a pretty scary idea to you. “So, he changed his mind? He’s not going to do it?”  
  
Harper shrugged, “I don’t know. We kind of quit talking about it and started—"  
  
“Fucking?”  
  
Harper grinned, “Yeah.”  
  
You were seeing less and less of Harper since the two of you had met Sam a month ago, but she seemed deliriously happy. You’d gone out with them a couple of times, but you were feeling more and more like the third wheel. Daniel had joined you the last time, the four of you having dinner at a snooty restaurant that he liked. The two of you felt like you were there by yourselves; Harper and Sam were completely wrapped up in each other. Daniel commented on their public display of affection as he reviewed the desert menu, “If we got up and left right now, they wouldn’t even notice. Will you split this chocolate thing with me?”  
  
“Sure.” The two of you ate dark, decadent chocolate cake minutes later. “She is his dessert menu.” Daniel agreed. You parted ways with them outside the restaurant, turning back and looking at them before you and Daniel turned the corner. They were making out against a building.  
  
Daniel’s hands were in his pockets as he walked, “Kids, huh?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I’ll walk you home and take a cab back.”  
  
“Okay.” The next day was Saturday and Daniel asked you if you were going to come to the studio. “Maybe. Depends how I feel in the morning.”  
  
“Well, I won’t be there. Jonathon and I are going shopping.”  
  
“You two are always shopping.”  
  
“It’s Jonathon’s anti-drug. It’s how he shakes off the week. So, if you come, you’ll have the place to yourself. We’ll be antiquing, so we’ll be gone all day, trust me.”  
  
“Okay, thanks.”  
  
The next day you went to your studio at about ten in the morning and started a brand new canvas. There were visions of hard fucks, brick walls and cold, darkened alleys dancing in your head.  
  
****************  
_you see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue_  
  
The mural was finished a month later. It was the first vertical mural that you’d ever painted. You spent a lot of your time on a ladder while you were working on it and painted a lot of it at night. Daniel would often stand outside the door to your studio around eleven o’clock and tell you to have a good night; he was going to bed.  
  
“There’s leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, Justin.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“And I started a pot of coffee for you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Daniel refused to let you walk home when you’d finish around three in the morning, so you usually just slept in his guest room, and went home the next day. For some reason, your muse had become a night owl. You called Harper the night it was done and asked her to come over and take a look at it.  
  
“ _Justin, it’s one in the morning.”_ You’d looked at your watch.  
  
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just so done. I had no idea what time it was.”  
  
“ _It’s okay. I’ll come by tomorrow, ‘kay?”_  
  
“Yeah, that’d be great.”  
  
When you saw Harper the next day, you apologized for calling her in the middle of the night.  
  
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like we were asleep.”  
  
“I figured.” Harper was pacing back and forth in front of the mural. “Why’d you answer the phone if you were fucking?”  
  
“Because it was you and it was the middle of the night. You scared me, you ding bat.”  
  
“Oh, right.”  
  
She finally stopped pacing, “Whoa.”  
  
“Whoa? What does ‘whoa’ mean?”  
  
“Whoa means whoa.”  
  
“That’s so helpful.” Harper lay down on the floor and stared at it. Her hair fanned on the linoleum. “Do you want me to get you a pillow?”  
  
“No, smart ass. I want to know which of these figures is you.”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
“Bull shit.”  
  
“Well, then I’m probably the shorter one, Einstein.” You lay down beside her on the floor, stuffing your hands behind your head.  
  
“What are you calling it?”  
  
You turned your head and looked at her, _”Three a.m.”_  
  
“Hmm, I’ve never seen two guys fuck in an alley while wearing tuxedos. This is a first.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure they’re fucking.”  
  
“Well, then, what are they doing?”  
  
You had to think about it. You weren’t exactly sure.  
  
“I think they’re dancing.”  
  
“To what? What are they dancing to?” she wanted to know.  
  
“I have no idea. I can’t hear it.”  
  
****************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_and it was late in the evening_  
  
The Sunday night before Labor Day in 2007, you invited Justin to stay over and watch movies. You ordered a bunch of appetizers from a local restaurant and the two of you watched Bette Davis. Jonathon called in the middle of your marathon to see what you were up to, and when you told him, he said, “You two are the biggest fags I know. Have fun.”  
  
After you were both sufficiently fed and mostly drunk, you ended up watching _Psycho,_ the old one. You kept looking over at Justin because he kept gasping. You stopped the movie at one point because he had to piss. He made you pull back the shower curtain in the bathroom before he’d even go in there.  
  
“Don’t leave me in here by myself.” When you escorted him back to the sofa and told him that maybe you shouldn’t watch the rest of it, Justin refused, saying he needed ‘closure.’ You rolled your eyes. As soon as the credits ran, he looked at you, “I’m _not_ sleeping by myself.”  
  
You realized that he was a little drunker than you thought when you had to help him up the stairs. He yanked his sweat pants off and climbed into bed, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to sleep.”  
  
“Justin, it’s just a movie about a guy with some issues about his mother. That’s all.”  
  
He pulled the covers up over his head, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it……Shit, it’s even darker under here.” His blond head re-emerged, “I can’t believe you made me watch that.”  
  
“I didn’t _make_ you.” You rolled over to go to sleep and were about to drift off when he tapped you on the shoulder. “What?”  
  
“Do you think Norman Bates was gay?”  
  
“I think Norman Bates was extremely disturbed. Being a homosexual was the least of his problems.”  
  
“True.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Daniel, I can’t sleep.”  
  
You rolled back over, “Do you want me to turn a light on or something? Read you a story? Get you some warm milk?”  
  
“Milk would be good.” You started to get out of bed, “Wait, no. Don’t leave me…….Can I just have some Valium or something?”  
  
You laughed as you got back under the covers, “No. You’re drunk. Bad idea.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Okay, tell me a story.”  
  
You sighed, “Okay. Once upon a time there was this very, very talented artist named Justin Taylor, and he had a huge secret that nobody knew.”  
  
“He was secretly, independently wealthy?” he asked you, scrunching his pillow.  
  
“No, he was a chicken shit. The end.”  
  
“You know, doctors are supposed to have compassion for people who are suffering. It’s part of your Hypocritical Oath or some shit.”  
  
“Hippocratic, not hypocritical.”  
  
“Whatever, you’re just not very hippo _cratical_ either. That’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“I could sing you a lullaby.” Obviously, you were joking.  
  
“Okay, sing _Yellow Submarine_. That’s what my mom used to sing to me when I was little because I loved that movie. We should’ve watched that movie instead of—"  
  
“That’s not even a lullaby.”  
  
“Sing it,” he demanded, closing his eyes.  
  
“Fine….. _In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea, and he told us of his life In the land of submarines…._  
  
He was asleep before you got to the chorus. Jonathon was right. You were the two biggest fags on the planet.  
  
****************  
_the arc of a love affair,  
rainbows in the high desert air_  
  
Someone was walking up your stairs at nine o’clock the next morning. It took you a minute to shake off the fuzz from the night before and realize that it had to be Harper. You could tell she was walking toward Justin’s bedroom because you could hear her humming in the hall. She’d checked the studio for him first. You whispered, “ _He’s in here,”_ and then she was standing in your doorway.  
  
She took one look at the two of you in bed together and her eyes grew twice as big, “Uh oh.”  
  
“It’s not what you think. We stayed up late watching scary movies. He was spooked.”  
  
She came in and sat on your bed, “Well, wake him up. I’ve got to talk to him.” You shook Justin a little and he snored and turned over.  
  
“Sorry. He’s out cold.”  
  
Harper looked around your bedroom and then her nervous eyes rested back on your face, “All right, well, you can tell him when he wakes up.”  
  
“Tell him what?” She wasn’t making any sense.  
  
“That I’m getting married.”  
  
You shook Justin harder, “Hey, _wake up.”_  
  
****************  
**JUSTIN'S POV**  
_the bride was contagious  
she burned like a bride_  
  
Harper’s wedding invitations left something to be desired:

 

 

_Josie Harper and Sam Collins  
request the honor of your presence  
at their wedding._

_Not this full moon, but the next one._

_P.S. Wear whatever you want.  
RSVP to harperandsam@gmail.com_

  
  
“Harper, you cannot send these out. These are ridiculous,” you told her.  
  
“No, they’re not. They’re straight and to the point.”  
  
“Do you realize you’re going to be ‘Josie Harper-Collins.’”  
  
“Of course, what else would I be?”  
  
“That’s a publisher! Like a major publisher.”  
  
“Really? Cool.”  
  
Overlooking the obvious etiquette flaws in her invitation, you pointed out to her that they didn’t tell anybody the date, time, or location of the ceremony.  
  
“Oh, shit. I forgot.” She grabbed the invitation back from you and called Sam, “Hey, what time are we getting married?” She wrote two forty-five on the card. “Why two forty-five?” She laughed at his answer and hung up the phone.  
  
“Why two forty-five?”  
  
“Because he’s always fifteen minutes late for everything.”  
  
“Give me that,” you grabbed the invitation from her. “I’ll fix this. Jesus.”  
  
“Planning shit just isn’t my thing, you know?”  
  
“Apparently.” You fired up your computer and started to create a wedding invitation for her. “You need to pick a date.” Harper said she had to have a lunar calendar to do that. You found one for her on the web.  
  
“Um, okay, October eleventh.”  
  
“That’s a Thursday. Nobody gets married on a Thursday.”  
  
“God, all these rules. Fine, Saturday, the thirteenth.”  
  
You shook your head at her, “Nobody gets married on the thirteenth.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“You’re fucking crazy.”  
  
“I want Alan to be there. This way we’ll see him on the eleventh, and we’ll have two days to make him presentable.”  
  
That night, Daniel told Harper that she should get married in the studio since she wasn’t interested in a church. Harper thought that sounded like fun. Daniel looked at you and said, “I’ll cater it. Stop panicking.”  
  
You crossed that off your list.  
  
The two of you went back upstairs and you whipped her up a quickie invitation that would have to do.

 

 

  
Admittedly, Harper wasn’t hard to please. She made you print one out right then so she could cross out three o’clock and write “2:45” on it. “I’ll give this one to Sam,” she said, stuffing it in her purse.  
  
“If he needs an invitation to show up at his own wedding, Harper, you’re in trouble.”  
  
****************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
_and I’ll jump, and hey,  
I may even show ‘em my handstand  
  
August, 1989_  
  
The only time that Harper wore socks with her sandals was when you were going to see your mother. And it wasn’t because they were lacey or because she wanted to look pretty; it was because she couldn’t wait to slide down the long, gray corridor outside your mother’s room. It was your usual pastime when you went to visit her at the hospital. You didn’t really know why your mother lived at the Holy Cross Hospital, but somehow you always got the feeling that you weren’t supposed to know. There was something about it that was a secret.  
  
But it was never a secret what you and Josie were doing in the hallway while you waited for your mother to come back from her treatment. You tried to be quiet as you raced Josie down the hall in your socks, smacked the radiator, turned around and tried to beat her back to the crack in the floor at the other end. Nurse Tate, the one that always gave you three pieces of candy and not just one, was your favorite. And Josie’s. She was big and black and her eyes always looked like licorice to you. Nurse Tate almost always had licorice. And she almost always had something to say about your father.  
  
You and Josie would cheer when you saw Nurse Tate rounding the corner with your mother in her wheelchair. Your mother had been at Holy Cross for a long time before you realized that she’d never be smiling when she came around the corner; she rarely even looked up. You became fascinated and comforted by the grin on Nurse Tate’s face. She was always glad to see you.  
  
“Well, if it isn’t Josie and Alley-oop,” she’d always say to you both as you held the door open to your mother’s room. You and Josie would always stand on your tiptoes against the door so Nurse Tate wouldn’t run over you over with the wheelchair. “D’your father just drop you off outside again?” she’d ask.  
  
“No, he walked us inside,” you’d lie. You didn’t want Nurse Tate to stop smiling.  
  
Josie was too busy staring at the dirt on the bottom of her socks to correct you, “Look, Alan,” she’d say, holding a foot up in your face, “They’re almost black!”  
  
Sometimes your mother would mumble, “Ruin your socks,” and sometimes she didn’t say anything. Mostly, she just stared at her hands as Nurse Tate put in her back in bed.  
  
“Your mother’s had a rough day, you two. Don’t be too crazy.” You would hop back and forth, on one foot and then the other, in front of your mother’s blank face, seeing if you could get a reaction.  
  
“She’s drooling again, Tate,” Josie would point out, taking the cloth out of Nurse Tate’s hand, “I can do it. Let me do it.” She’d wipe your mother’s leaking mouth, “There, Mom. See? I’m a nurse, too.”  
  
“You’re a mess,” your mother replied, and you both took that as enough recognition to begin performing any one of the skits you and Josie would act out when you got home from school. Josie always made you be the pet, or the student, or the patient. You were never an owner, a teacher, or a doctor. Once you tried to be the nurse to her doctor, and Josie promptly told you that there was no such thing as a boy nurse. So, you’d change your name to ‘Alice,’ pretend to be a girl, so she’d let you pretend to be the nurse. She couldn’t argue with you then.  
  
After about your third performance, which by that time was just the two of you fighting with each other over who got to hold the toilet paper roll you were using as a microphone, Nurse Tate would tell you to settle down, “Your mom’s tired. Let’s try to be a little bit quieter, okay?”  
  
“But I’m on _American Bandstand_ ,” Josie would whine, attempting to impress everyone by doing a split in her slippery socks. That always made her dress fly up and you could see which underwear she was wearing that day. It was Josie’s signature to wear her ‘days of the week’ panties on all the wrong days.  
  
“Good lord,” Nurse Tate would always say, “I _hope_ it’s not Monday, or I’m in trouble.”  
  
The only person who was ever in trouble on those days, as far as you could tell, was your father. He stood outside the hospital, leaning against a utility pole, smoking a cigarette. You knew as soon as he finished it that he’d tell you both to go inside, “Go ask for your mother.” The two of you would run to the automatic doors, looking back at your father as they opened. He was always smashing his cigarette into the brick sidewalk, “Go. Go on. I’ll be back in an hour.” And the two of you would disappear inside the cool lobby, the automatic doors _whooshing_ to a close above your heads.  
  
Sometimes if your mother had an accident when they were shocking her, Nurse Tate would shoo you both out into the hall so she could change your mother. The smell of urine began to fill a void inside you. But in the hallway again, Josie never missed a beat. She was lining up on the black crack in the floor and counting off, “Okay. Ready…….Set…….. _SLOW!”_  
  
You jumped the starting mark too soon and had to start one square behind her. And you fell for it every single time.  
  
It was those rules, that day, of Josie’s that had made you start all the way around the corner the time she finally said, “GO!” You flew around the corner to catch up to her and ran smack into a door.  
  
Your father was pissed when he came to pick the two of you up at the end of the hour, and you weren’t outside. Thirty minutes later, the two of you emerged with Nurse Tate. Josie’s socks were in her hand, and a three by three bandage was on your forehead. “What the hell happened to you?” your father wanted to know.  
  
Nurse Tate answered him before you could, a firm hand wrapped over your shoulder, “He ran into a door, Mr. Harper.”  
  
Your father’s eyes narrowed, but only at Josie, “Why weren’t you watching your brother?”  
  
“It’s not her job to watch him, Mr. Harper. It’s yours.” Your father started to say something, but Nurse Tate cut him off, “A six year old is not responsible for a five year old.”  
  
He ignored her, “What’d they do to you?” he asked you.  
  
“I got stitches.” You would have been proud of them if you didn’t think you were going to be punished.  
  
“And a lollipop and a balloon, but I popped it by mistake,” added Josie.  
  
“It was green. The balloon,” you told him. “They didn’t have any more green ones.” You felt like if you kept spewing out pointless details, it would somehow diffuse his anger. “Nurse Tate held my hand when they fixed my head.”  
  
“There was blood all over the floor!” Josie announced in a misguided attempt to help the situation.  
  
Your father wouldn’t look at Nurse Tate, “Well, tell the nurse thank you. We gotta go.” You turned around and threw your arms around her wide body, burying your face in her white pants. She always smelled like baby powder and rubbing alcohol.  
  
“Be careful, Alley-oop. Your head,” she warned. You’d already forgotten. Nurse Tate patted you on the back, and Josie thanked her for putting her hair in a ponytail. Your father wasn’t very good at ponytails.  
  
“Get in the car, guys.” The two adults’ eyes met for a brief second. “Tell her you’ll see her next week.”  
  
“And you with them, Mr. Harper. She’s your wife. She’s not gonna get better without your help.”  
  
“She’s not gonna get any better,” your father said, closing the two of you in the back seat. “Doesn’t matter what I do.”  
  
There were cross words between them after that that you couldn’t hear. You watched Nurse Tate’s hands fly up in the air when your father walked around to the driver’s side of the car. When he opened the door to get inside you heard her, “And for Christ’s sake, Mr. Harper, _they_ need her.”  
  
Your father cranked the car and blasted the radio. Josie waved at Nurse Tate with both hands as you drove away, “Blow her a kiss, Alan. I’ll give you a quarter.”  
  
You did it, and Josie told you, “Too bad, so sad. I had my fingers crossed.”  
  
“Dad! Josie lied to me. She’s supposed to give me a –" Your father tossed a quarter over his shoulder and it bounced off your chest. “Thanks, Dad.”  
  
“Never trust a woman, son, even if she is your sister.”  
  
****************  
_sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair_  
  
A month later, your father brought your mother home, against her doctor’s orders. For years you tried to convince yourself that it because he wanted what was best for her, that he loved her and missed her, but you knew deep down that it was because he was tired of being harassed and lectured by the hospital staff. Bringing you to see your mother once a week was all the burden your father could handle.  
  
And that never made sense to you because your father was in charge of train maintenance for the Atlanta subway system. He was a supervisor. The big cheese. He was ‘large and in charge’ Josie would always say when your father boasted about someone he had to discipline or fire. He was good at that. You were too young to understand that this was his way of dealing with everything: a snap decision that usually sent somebody packing. Less than twenty years later, that person would be you.  
  
But for now, your mother was home, and very little changed. Josie still cooked standing on a chair and your father still put you to bed every night. Your mother seemed more distant that she’d ever been. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hear their harsh voices at night, when they thought the two of you were asleep,  
  
“I need to go back, James. I need my medicine. I need to see my doctor.”  
  
“You belong in this house with your family, not in some doctor’s office.”  
  
“Why do you care? You don’t love me. You don’t need me. You don’t—"  
  
“You don’t know what I need, Ruth. You don’t know shit. Go to sleep.”  
  
When you woke up in the middle of the night because you’d wet your bed, you’d find your mother sitting in the dark in the den in front of the television. _I Love Lucy_ or _Mash_ or _Taxi_ would be playing in the background while your mother wrote and wrote and wrote in her journal.  
  
“What’s wrong Alley? D’you wet the bed?” she asked, without even turning around. She knew you were there.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
She would close her journal and walk over to you, her white nightgown almost transparent, her hands soft and dry on your face, “C’mon, let’s clean you up.” She would smile at you as she helped you pull your clean pajamas over your head. You could do it yourself, but you didn’t want to. Once you were clean and dry, she would tuck you into bed with Josie, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”  
  
“I won’t.” You’d never seen a bed bug.  
  
Josie would almost always wake up, yawning in your face, “D’you pee on yourself?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
You’d watch your mother strip your bed with an efficiency that always impressed you. She’d walk out of the room after kissing you goodnight, your urine-soaked sheets balled up in her arms. You’d hear her stuff them in the washer. She’d wait until morning to run it so she wouldn’t wake your father.  
  
Those twenty minutes alone with your mother almost every night became something you looked forward to. When she committed suicide four years later, you were the one who found her, lying in a tub of bloody water with a bottle of aspirin scattered all over the floor.  
  
You never wet the bed again.  
  
****************  
_everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance,  
everybody thinks its true_  
  
The difference as far as you could tell between plagiarism and tribute was location. ‘Upstairs,’ above ground, it was considered bad taste at best and a crime at worst to copy someone’s work for the consumption of others. But down here, ‘downstairs,’ beneath the streets, it was admired, a tribute and a pastime all in one. Anytime you doubted it, Stitch would convince you again. He was good at that. You stuck with him because he seemed extremely smart and was never phased about the condition of his life. He chose it, and as he always reminded you, so did you.  
  
“To believe that life just happens to you only weakens you, Al. Never tell anyone that you ‘ended up here,’ like it’s a bad place to be. Tell them that this is where you live, where you thrive. You have a family of hundreds and a community that believes in you.”  
  
Stitch would’ve been an amazing preacher if he believed in a higher power. But he didn’t. He believed in what he could see, what he could create, and in honoring those that enriched the lives of people in his ‘community.’ When nothing else made sense to you, you believed what he believed. It was easier than wondering. He took the picture out of your hand and unrolled it, studying it from every angle, a pencil between his fingers, and asked you, “What’s his tag, again? The guy that drew this?”  
  
“Eggo.”  
  
“Eggo?”  
  
“I think it means the waffles.”  
  
“Hmm, that’s kinda cool,” Stitch said, drawing a tic-tac-toe symbol on the bottom right corner. The copy of the sketch of you and Josie sleeping after she’d cut your hair had been living inside the inner pocket of your jacket for weeks. “We still need yellow paint and probably some gray and some black,” he reminded you.  
  
“I know. I’ll get it.”  
  
“Once we get all the stuff we need, it’ll only take me three, maybe four weeks, to do this.” Stitch pointed at the wall across from his bunk, “And you can help me. We gotta whitewash that whole wall first.”  
  
You couldn’t wait. Stitch had promised to recreate this picture for you “in living color” since the day you’d brought it home. He told you that you needed to come up with a tag, a signature for yourself, and eventually you settled on an “A” with a loop circling through it.  


 

  
“What’s that, man?”  
  
“That’s an ‘alley-oop.’”  
  
“Oh, right. Makes sense. I like it. Only if you look at it wrong, it looks like a heart.”  
  
“That’s what I want.”  
  
“Okay, then I’m gonna put Eggo in like this.”

 

 

 

And then he added himself, the eye of a needle, one of the many that had sewn him back together:

 

 

You couldn’t wait to get started on this mural, and neither could Stitch, “The days will go by so much faster when we’re working on this. And everybody will see it because of where we’re going to put it. Right smack on that wall that everybody sees. You’re gonna be famous, Alley-oop.” You were just glad that Stitch was excited about something. It was a lot better than when he was fighting off demons.  
  
When Stitch had returned from the first Gulf War, he came home to an empty house. His wife and daughter and everything they owned were gone with no explanation. “Not even a letter. She didn’t even leave me a letter.” Instead, she left a man who fought for her freedom with none of his own. The house was in his name, the mortgage was overdue, and Stitch, who earned his nickname from being shot and injured more than anyone else in his platoon, had nothing left inside him to pull himself back up. “At least if they were dead, I’d know that they’re dead.” When Stitch came back home from the war, death seemed to be the only thing he could handle. “But even if I don’t know where she is,” Stitch would explain about his daughter, “I’m not gonna kill myself. She’d find out someday, and then, I’d be just like my wife, another bad example.”  
  
For months after he got home, Stitch wandered the streets. “I thought I was looking for work, but I wasn’t.” He was looking for a new family. When you met him, Stitch hadn’t seen the sun in months. “Don’t need anything they got up there,” he told you the day he offered to share his small space with you. “Got everything I need right here—people I can trust and a place to sleep.” Stitch let you stay with him in return for being his link to the upstairs, for fetching anything he needed. “People’ll give you anything you want, Al. You’ve got the face of a baby.”  
  
And it was that face and your harmless affect that charmed many a woman out of spare change and most men out of more. You knew that sometimes they were just paying you to go away, and there were plenty of times you would, even empty-handed, if your father was working on the line you were begging on. A few years after your mother died, your father brought you and Josie to New York City, ostensibly because of a new job. But when you arrived, you realized that there was no job, just a man glad to be away from a dead woman’s nosy family and two children who knew no one, including their father. Eventually he went to work and you and Josie went to school, but the two of you clung to each other and the memories of your mom. They very obviously belonged only to you and her. Your father made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want them.  
  
Your father had a way that had developed into a habit of making things perfectly clear. When the guidance counselor at your junior high called the apartment every few nights for months, he made it perfectly clear that, “If you have something to say to me about my son, you can say it right now, on the phone.” Your counselor and your teachers and eventually the principal wanted a face-to-face meeting with your father,  
  
“ _We’d like to sit down and talk about your son, about his progress, about some of the struggles he’s been having.”_  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with my son.”  
  
The letters that came home with you were thrown in the trash. “Dad, you’re supposed to sign that, so I can bring that back.”  
  
“You don’t need to be evaluated. I’m not signing anything.”  
  
“Please, Dad. They’re just gonna send home another one tomorrow if I don’t bring it back.”  
  
“What did I just say?”  
  
“They say they’re just trying to help me. You know, ‘cause of what happened to Mom.”  
  
Your father froze as if you’d threatened him, “ _Nothing_ happened to your mother. And there’s not a damn thing wrong with you. You don’t see them calling here about your sister, do you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, do the math, Alan. Straighten up. This shit is a waste of my time.”  
  
Without your father’s permission, the school wasn’t allowed to help you. Back then, you wondered how soon after your mother died your father stopped loving you. Now, as you roam the lines looking for a kind face or an easy opportunity, you wonder if he knows that you’re up there at least once a week, wandering around his stomping ground.  
  
Tomorrow, on your way to see Josie, you’d collect as much money as you possibly could to add to what you’d already saved. Then on your way home, showered and looking much more presentable, you’d buy as much spray paint as you could for Stitch. People were always so much nicer to you on your way home from seeing Josie, than on your way there. Once a woman’s briefcase had fallen open and blown the contents all over the sidewalk. She bought you a cup of coffee and actually sat with you in a coffee shop after you helped her pick everything up. She smelled like lilies and nine of her fingernails were perfectly polished, the tenth having broken when she tried to catch her things from blowing everywhere. She thanked you again for your help and put five dollars on the table before she left. You waited until she was long gone down the sidewalk before you stole it.  
  
The first lesson you’d ever learned living on the streets was that money is the only equalizer.  
  
****************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_I wanna kiss the bride_  
  
You knew something was up on the day of Harper’s wedding. Justin was more nervous than the bride and his anxiety was only heightened by Jonathon’s contribution to the event--‘a man of the cloth’ who’d fallen asleep on your sofa after stating, “Wake me up ten minutes before the ceremony, ‘kay?”  
  
“Jonathon, where did you find this guy?” Justin demanded, an apron over his tux. You didn’t even know why Justin was in the kitchen. The food was catered. Everything was ready.  
  
Jonathon answered him from the doorway, “He’s sort of one of my patients.”  
  
“ _What?”_  
  
“He’s fine, Justin, he’s not crazy. He just has some issues with his mother.”  
  
“Oh great, Harper’s being married by Norman Bates. That is just fucking perfect, Jonathon. Just fucking perfect.”  
  
You yanked Justin back into the kitchen, “ _Calm down._ He’s just pulling your leg. He’s not one of his patients.”  
  
Justin whispered at you over his shoulder while he rearranged little sandwiches, “He better not be. I’ve worked too hard to make this day perfect.”  
  
“I’m gonna stick a valium up your ass if you don’t stop stressing. You’d think this was your wedding day.”  
  
“Well, she has no family except Alan, no close girlfriends, no mother. I am the wedding party, Daniel, or haven’t you noticed?”  
  
“I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed,” you remarked, backing out of ground zero. “I’m going to check on the real bride.” The door swung shut before the cocktail weenie that Harper had insisted on because, ‘Oh my god, they’re so cute,’ hit you.  
  
You looked outside on your way to the stairs, and saw Alan and Sam and Jonathon standing on the deck talking. Alan had cleaned up well in the tux you rented him, and he and Sam looked like they were getting along. When you got to the top of the stairs, you knocked on the guest room that Harper was dressing in, “Harper, I brought the ginger ale you asked for.”  
  
She opened the door and you were almost taken aback with how beautiful she looked in her dress. She took the glass from you and sat down on the bench in front of the vanity, sipping it and taking deep breaths. You closed the door behind you as you stepped into the room, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”  
  
“You’re a shrink. That’s what you do, right?”  
  
You laughed at her spunk, “Yeah. That’s what I do. But I’m wondering, not as a shrink, but as your friend, how pregnant you are.”  
  
Harper stared at you in the mirror, “Well, aren’t you intuitive?”  
  
“Not really. Most women don’t vomit when the caterer arrives for their wedding or refuse champagne at their rehearsal dinner.”  
  
“Pregnant enough. Sam knows. He’s happy.”  
  
“Does Justin know?”  
  
Harper laughed, “God, no. You see what a nervous Nelly he is. I’ll tell him after the honeymoon.”  
  
“Fair enough. Are you happy about it?”  
  
Harper turned around to face you, “Unbelievably. I can’t wait to have this baby. It just happened a little sooner than I planned.”  
  
You smiled, “Well, congratulations. And you look beautiful.”  
  
“Well, that’s good because I feel like shit.”  
  
You both laughed, and then you asked her, “You about ready to go? I need to know so I can rouse the minister.”  
  
“That guy is a spaz. I know it’s driving Justin crazy that I’m having such a shotgun wedding.”  
  
“He’ll get over it, as long as we don’t run out of food and the florist quits arguing with him.”  
  
“I know. I already went in there and told him to let Justin have his way. It’s not worth it. I hope he doesn’t stop and bitch somebody out while he’s walking me down the aisle.”  
  
“He won’t.” You looked at your watch, “Fifteen minutes to three.”  
  
“Sam’s here?”  
  
“Yeah, he was actually early.”  
  
“Well, that’s probably a good sign.”  
  
You left her alone, walking into their studio transformed into a chapel of sorts, making sure everything was ready. The small room was filled with various friends from the art community, Tess, Harper’s previous studio-neighbor, Maya, and a few from your social circle who’d gotten to know Harper through her shows. Her father didn’t even now about the wedding, much less get an invitation. You went back downstairs to gather everyone, including Justin.  
  
“Remind Jonathon that he’s in charge of the music,” he told you.  
  
“He knows. Let’s go.”  
  
At five minutes after three, the room stood as Harper walked down the aisle on Justin’s arm to the traditional wedding march playing over the speakers. Jonathon came and stood beside you when he was finished with the music. The minister looked awfully perky; his cat nap must’ve done the trick. Harper whispered something to Justin that made him smile, and the minister asked, “Who gives this woman to be married?”  
  
Justin looked at Harper and said, “I do,” and let her go. Harper and Sam had decided that they didn’t want anyone standing with them when they took their vows, so Justin walked to his seat.  
  
When the minister uttered the words, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace,” the entire congregation turned toward the voice coming from the other end of the aisle.  
  
“Time out, man.”  
  
It was Zeek.  
  
Harper smiled when she saw who was standing there. Justin, on the other hand, had a much different reaction, “Where the _hell_ have you been?”  
  
“ _Justin_ ,” you whispered.  
  
“Well, I’ve left him five hundred messages.”  
  
Zeek walked down the aisle in his black suit, stopping in front of Harper, “Who’s this?” He pointed to Sam.  
  
Harper grinned; she seemed genuinely glad to see him, “Zeek, this is Sam. Sam, this is Zeek.”  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Hey, man.” And then Zeek turned to Justin, “You like this guy, man?”  
  
“Yeah, I like him.”  
  
Zeek shrugged his shoulders, “Well, okay. Go for it.” The couple started to turn back around again, but stopped when Zeek’s hand was on Sam’s arm, “But you better take good care of her, man, or I will kick your—"  
  
“ _Zeek._ ” Suddenly Justin had once again found his manners.  
  
Zeek ignored him, “Mark my words, man. Mark. My. Words.”  
  
Sam, seemingly only mildly flustered, told him, “I love her. You don’t need to worry.”  
  
“Carry on, everybody. Sorry ‘bout the interruption.” Zeek walked over and sat next to Justin, “She looks good, huh, Eggo?”  
  
“Yeah, she looks beautiful.”  
  
****************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_the mother and child reunion is only a motion away_  
  
Seven months and three weeks after Harper’s wedding, the end of May 2008, you sat in the waiting room outside Harper’s hospital room and pretended, for the sake of the other visitors in your vicinity, that you didn’t know the woman who was screaming her head off down the hall. Several people mumbled to one another that they hoped it wasn’t their daughter, aunt, sister, etc. You hid behind your most recent issue of _Art Forum_ and prayed for the whole thing to just be over, and also:  
  
_Dear God,  
Thank you for not making me a girl.  
Amen._  
  
You sent Daniel, who’d insisted on being there because ‘this hospital is always understaffed,’ to the cafeteria to get you something cold to drink. Hearing Harper scream was making you sweat. He returned with bottles of water and juice just as Sam emerged from Harper’s room and plopped down into a chair beside you.  
  
“Well?” you asked him.  
  
“It’s a girl.”  
  
Daniel repeated, “It’s a girl,” like he was trying to convince himself or something. Harper had sworn since her sixth month that it was a girl. You weren’t the least bit surprised. That baby would’ve had a lot of nerve being anything else.  
  
“Is that her screaming?” you asked Sam.  
  
Sam nodded, exhausted, “Like mother, like daughter.”  
  
The next night you dropped by Harper’s room to meet Amelia Jocelyn Harper-Collins in person. She looked just like Harper, only with dark brown hair and brown eyes like Sam. She was tiny, just over six pounds, but she made up for it with a set of lungs that would’ve made an opera singer green with envy. You held Amelia in your arms, and she pooped immediately.  
  
“Oh look, she’s classy, Harper. Just like you.”  
  
“Aw, she can’t help it. She’s just a little stinker.”  
  
“She’s adorable. Absolutely adorable,” you told her, looking at Amelia’s tiny feet. “I can’t believe how much hair she has.”  
  
“Yep, Sam says she’s a looker.”  
  
“He’s right. She’s precious.” Amelia squawked. “ _That’s right, I said you were precious.”_  
  
“Oh my god, you’re worse than Sam with the baby talk.”  
  
“Where is he, anyway?”  
  
“He went home to get some sleep. He was cranky.”  
  
The two of you talked for another twenty minutes or so, and it was nice just to be with her; she’d become so scarce since the wedding and had stopped spending much time in the studio, claiming she was too tired to be creative. You’d missed her. Alan had come by a few times and you took him in, fed him, and often just let him sleep on the futon in your studio while you painted. He asked you if she was going to come back, going to work here anymore.  
  
“I think so. She just has other priorities right now.”  
  
“I miss her,” he told you. “Is she happy?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s practically blissed out most of the time.”  
  
Once, Daniel had come home early and told you to invite Alan to stay for dinner when he woke up. The three of you ate in Daniel’s dining room. Daniel had had a particularly difficult day, having to hospitalize a patient that wasn’t able to cope anymore. He’d handled the admittance procedures, called it a day, and came home to cook. Cooking was Daniel’s anti-drug.  
  
Alan asked him, “You feel like it’s your fault? That your patient is suicidal?”  
  
“No, I know it’s not my fault; I just feel extremely helpless. I just don’t know what to do for them right now,” Daniel replied, concealing even the gender of his patient.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Do you shock your patients?”  
  
Daniel gave Alan a quizzical look, “Not usually. ECT is very controversial. I’ve seen some patients really improve after shock therapy, but not very many.”  
  
“I think the shocking killed my mother.”  
  
Daniel looked at you for verification. Alan wasn’t always rational, but tonight he seemed like he knew what he was talking about. You shrugged your shoulders. You didn’t know anything about Harper’s mother, except that she had been dead for years.  
  
“Tell me why you think that,” Daniel asked him, and Alan began to reveal the images that he had of his mother. The conversation almost excluded you, Alan seeming like he’d waited years to tell someone these things. Daniel listened, and you cleared the table and brought out ice cream for dessert. They talked for almost two hours, and at the end, Alan seemed almost relieved. Daniel convinced him to spend the night, worried that just talking about these things was going to be too much for him. Alan didn’t object; he was exhausted. He fell asleep on Daniel’s sofa before you could even offer him the guest room.  
  
Daniel talked quietly as the two of you cleaned up the kitchen, “There’s severe mental illness on both sides of his family. His paternal grandmother died in a mental institution, and his mother committed suicide. His mother’s brother, an uncle he never knew, hung himself in his backyard.” Daniel shook his head, “That kid never had a chance.”  
  
“You gave him one tonight,” you told him. “Maybe just getting it out will do something for him.”  
  
“I hope so. God, this has been a shitty day.” He told you goodnight and disappeared up the stairs.  
  
You stayed that night in your room at Daniel’s so that Alan wouldn’t have to leave before dawn. Daniel woke you up at five thirty a.m.  
  
Alan was gone.

****************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_you could have a steam train  
if you'd just lay down your tracks  
you could have an aeroplane flying  
if you bring your blue sky back_  
  
In the months after Babylon was bombed, real estate prices in and around Liberty Avenue plummeted to new lows. Opportunities seemed to fall at your feet. Within six months after Babylon had been rebuilt and was once again a thriving part of the community, you sat in a booth at the diner with the owner of it and several other retail properties and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. The deal essentially made you a silent partner. You retained ownership of the diner and the other properties under the name D.P., Inc. When Ted pressed you for the meaning behind the name, you told him it has something to do with the night you met Justin and you left it at that.  
  
You met with Debbie on the eve of the deal and let her know most of what you were up to. She looked across the table at you waiting for you to drop the bomb, so to speak. She couldn’t imagine why you’d be taking her out to dinner.  
  
“Brian, whatever it is, just tell me.” Her red-painted fingers clutched her neck. “Is it the cancer? You’re not sick again?”  
  
“No, I’m not sick. I just wanted you to know that I bought the diner.” She’d almost choked on her food.  
  
“You _what?”_  
  
“I bought the diner. Deal was final today.”  
  
“Oh god. Why?”  
  
“I got it for almost nothing, and I wanted it.”  
  
“You wanted it?”  
  
“Yeah. If I hadn’t bought it, someone else would’ve scooped it up and probably torn it down. It was ripe for the taking.” She’d stared at you in disbelief.  
  
“I didn’t even know it was on the market.”  
  
“It’s a prime location. It would’ve gone to some chain or something. I had to.”  
  
“Shit. So that means—"  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You work for me now.”  
  
“Holy fucking Jesus, Brian. This is the last thing I expected you to tell me.”  
  
“In about three to six months, I’m buying that Thai restaurant close to us and am going to renovate it. I’d like you to help me with that. I don’t know much about running a restaurant Deb. I could really use your help.”  
  
“Doing what? I’m just a waitress, Brian. A waitress with a big mouth, but still, just a waitress.”  
  
“You basically run the diner, Deb. As far as I’m concerned, you can run it for me. Whoever I bring in to run the new place will probably need the benefit of someone who’s inside the restaurant scene here—licensing, inspections, all of that. I need people I can trust who work hard. As far as I’m concerned, that’s you.”  
  
“Holy shit. Am I getting a raise?”  
  
You laughed, “Yeah, I have an official offer right here.” You reached into your jacket pocket, took out an envelope, and handed it to her. “I need you to take over the diner immediately, so look it over and let me know asap. I’d like your answer in forty-eight hours, if possible.”  
  
She opened the envelope and looked at the front page of the contract. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Brian, I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”  
  
You leaned forward on your arm, your fingers running up and down the stem of your wine glass, “Say that this deal stays between you and me….and Theodore, who’s contractually bound to secrecy. I don’t need people to know that I own the diner. As far as anyone else needs to know, you now manage the place. It’s a well-deserved promotion. You’ve always been the only person anyone relies on there. The purchase is one of many, things I’m stowing away for a rainy day. I’ll assume the risk. If it makes money, you’ll get twenty-five percent of the profits. If it loses money, there’s no risk to you. It’s that simple.”  
  
“Nothing’s that simple, Brian.”  
  
“It has to be. It’s a condition of the deal and of my offer to you. It’s yours, Deb. Take it and run with it.” She studied your face with a wary expression on hers, “Deb, do you have any reason not to trust me? Have I ever lied to you?”  
  
“No. You’ve always been painfully honest.”  
  
“Then accept my offer and consider it a heartfelt ‘thank you’ for everything you and Vic did for me. Let me give something back.”  
  
Debbie’s eyes began to tear at the mention of her brother, “I want to say ‘yes,’ but I should talk to Carl first. Right?”  
  
“Probably a good idea.”  
  
She tucked your offer into her obscenely tacky purse, “Well, are we having dessert?”  
  
“Sure. We’ll work it off, trust me.”  
  
****************  
_you could have a big dipper  
going up and down, all around the bends  
you could have a bumper car, bumping  
this amusement never ends_  
  
Once Zeek had fixed your electrical system at Babylon that day, he seemed to always be around. You figured it was because, between Babylon, Zeal’s renovations, the loft elevator, and the fact that your office was once a shitty bath house, there was always something that needed to be fixed, or installed, or moved. You even ‘loaned’ him to Debbie when the diner needed to replace a freezer or upgrade a sub panel. Anytime something needed to be done, Zeek always seemed to be standing right in front of you with his hand out and plenty of time. He’d scribble whatever directions you were giving him onto a notepad that, in your opinion, was too small for Gus. Yet he always seemed to get everything exactly right.  
  
About a week after Gabe had come on board, you called a meeting of all your managers and included Debbie so that she and Gabe could get acquainted. Her place on your payroll as far as anyone other than Ted knew, was as a consultant. Zeal was only a few weeks from opening. No meeting of this motley crew, to this day, ever starts on time; a tradition born of the six of you—you, Deb, Ted, Cynthia, Gabe, and Zeek—always waiting for the seventh dwarf—Rube. Rube swore it was his god-given right to be late to anything held before three p.m. since he worked in a nightclub and never shut the doors completely before four. So that day, the six of you sat around your brand new conference room table waiting for Rube who’d called right at ten to say, “Just give me fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.”  
  
Debbie, not yet as comfortable with Gabe as she would come to be, flipped through the business plan for Zeal that Cynthia had lain in front of her with a perplexed look on her face. She leaned over to tell you that she had no fucking clue what she was looking at, smiling when you told her not to worry about it. You’d explain it in few minutes. She folded her hands on top of the report and attempted to make idle conversation with you, “So, you talked to Sunshine lately?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“How’s he doing?”  
  
“Fine.” You opened your report and pretended to be making notes in the margin. You weren’t interested in Debbie’s attempts at conversation, not when Zeek was regaling Gabe about the life he’d left behind,  
  
“ _’Cakes, I’m telling you, best piece of ass I’ve had since—"  
  
“Since the last piece of ass you had?”_ Gabe kept lowering his voice in an attempt to lure Zeek to do the same. It didn’t work.  
  
“ _Hell, the last piece of ass I had, at the club last night, was nothing compared to Eggo.”_  
  
“ _I’m amazed that your dick can even distinguish one ass from another,”_ Gabe whispered, rolling his eyes in your direction. You turned your head and pretended to be fixing your _Cross_ pen.  
  
Zeek ignored your comment, “ _But that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for my baby brother. So, just remember that, ‘Cakes. Remember what I’m sacrificing to be here for you.”_ It dawned on you that brotherly love was much stronger than you’d ever imagined. Giving up a piece of ass to help your family? That didn’t compute with you. On the other hand, if that was the kind of ass available in New York City, you should’ve gone when you still had both balls.  
  
“ _Yes, Zeek,”_ Gabe reiterated, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “ _I’m fully aware of everything you do for me. No one is more selfless or more altruistic, than you.”  
  
“Lay off the big words, man. That’s not necessary. Everybody knows you have an MBNA.”  
  
“MBNA is a bank, Zeek. Not a business degree.”_ Gabe glanced in your direction again, and you looked down, pretending that there was a very important message scrolling across your Blackberry. “ _I have an MBA.”  
  
“And something long and pointy stuck up your ass, man.”_  
  
Rube swooped in about that time, and you cleared your throat and then your mind of any thoughts of primo ass, and began the meeting. In no time, and you weren’t exactly sure how, Gabe was informing Debbie that marinara sauce wasn’t supposed to be the color of her hair. You thought you were going to have to pay Zeek to pull them off each other.  
  
Theodore pointed out to you later that you probably didn’t need to hire any more Italians.  
  
****************  
_you could never know what it's like  
your blood like winter freezes just like ice_  
  
In November of 2008 on a cold Wednesday around lunch time, Debbie stood in front of your desk at Kinnetik. She and Gabe had long since buried the hatchet, concerned more with making money than on proving who was the more authentic Italian. When they realized they were both going to be fairly well-off, the pursuit of who made the best lasagna fell to the wayside. She walked right in, unwilling to wait for Cynthia to announce her.  
  
“Deb? To what do I owe this surprise? What major appliance in the kitchen-of-the-damned has gone belly-up now?” The two of you had replaced enough ovens and refrigerators and air conditioners in that diner over the last couple of years to have demolished the place and rebuilt it from the ground up.  
  
She smiled, sort of, “I’m not here about the diner.”  
  
Deb was nothing if not easy to read. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“I just got a call from Carl about fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
“Okay, about what?” You didn’t know why she was making you play twenty questions. You had a full schedule that day and then some.  
  
“Brian, Carl just told me,” she put her hands on your desk as if reaching for yours and began again, “Carl just told me that Chris Hobbes is dead.” You closed your laptop and began to look for your briefcase. “Brian? Are you all right?” She stood when you did. You started to walk across your office to the sofa where your briefcase was, and she stopped you, wrapping her arms around you. You did your best to return something that felt like a hug. She released you, looked at your face, and then spoke again, “Call me if you need me. If you need anything.”  
  
“Tell Jennifer, in person.”  
  
She nodded, “Okay.”  
  
You walked back over to your desk and pressed your intercom, “Cynthia, cancel the rest of my week and get me on the next flight to New York City.”

  
Lyrics taken from Elton John’s _Can You Feel the Love Tonight,_ Stockard Channing’s _There Are Worse Things I Could Do_ from the _Grease_ soundtrack, Frank Loesser/Hoagy Carmichael’s _Heart and Soul_ , Elton John’s _Can You Feel the Love Tonight_ again and _Candle in the Wind_ , Billy Joel’s _New York State of Mind_ , Elton John’s _Your Song_ , Paul Simon’s _Late in the Evening_ and _Hearts and Bones_ , Barry Manilow’s _Bandstand Boogie_ , Elton John’s _Someone Saved My Life Tonight_ , Paul Simon’s _Train in the Distance_ , Elton John’s _Kiss the Bride_ , Paul Simon’s _Mother and Child Reunion_ , Peter Gabriel’s _Sledgehammer_ , and Elton John’s _I’m Still Standing._


	12. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 9-Associations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was in 2 posts on Live Journal. Here it is one.)  
> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 10/16/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 9-ASSOCIATIONS  
  
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _to resume old acquaintances_  
  
“You know, I’ve asked him forty times _not_ to flick his cigarettes in my garden,” you mumbled into the phone as you tried to stand inconspicuously to the right of your front door.  
  
“ _Oh please, it’s not a garden, it’s a rosebush,”_ Jonathon said, adding that the crickets were chirping so loud that he could hear them over the phone. You told him to be quiet. “ _Why? Can you hear what they’re saying?”_ he wanted to know.  
  
“No, of course not. I just see better when you’re quiet.”  
  
…..  
  
“ _Whatever. You called me.”_ Jonathon was at some sort of psycho-pharmaceutical conference in Toronto that you knew he was only attending because he had an almost mystical attraction to drug reps. “ _Look, if you’re going to keep me on the phone, at least give me the play-by-play. Don’t make me work so hard.”_  
  
Jonathon had given you so much shit about putting virtually-sheer curtains on the windows on either side of the front door when you bought this place, but tonight you were patting yourself on the back for your brilliant window treatment decision. You resumed your description of what was unfolding in front of you, “Everything on this guy is long.”  
  
“ _You’re kidding?”_  
  
“Not _that_ , you perv. His fingers, his hair--sort of. Hell, his legs are so long he could kick my door down without even getting out of his long limousine.”  
  
“ _He’s in a limo?”_ Jonathon was listening now.  
  
“Well, he _was_ in it, but now he’s not...holy… fucking… shit.”  
  
“ _What? What? Holy fucking shit, what?”_  
  
“The man is oozing sex all over my sidewalk.”  
  
“ _Get the fuck out.”_  
  
Jonathon continued to ramble and you continued to watch.  
  
The man who’d emerged from the limousine had to be close to your age. You couldn’t decide if you’d prefer him a little younger or a little older, or if you’d just prefer him, period. Justin certainly did. It wasn’t anything overt that made you think that, just more of a familiarity between them that made you almost ashamed for not looking away. You mumbled something to Jonathon who responded,  
  
“ _What? I can’t understand you. Speak up.”_  
  
“I _said_ , his shoes are as expensive as yours. His clothes, more so.” Jonathon was a man who preferred to classify things by comparison.  
  
“ _I hope you have the light off. I hope you’re not standing there in plain-hidden sight.”_ You’d never appreciated the dimmer on your foyer light more than at that very moment. Your hesitancy gave you away, “ _That light’s not the only thing that’s dim.”_ He can’t go half a minute without drawing an analogy, a comparison, or just getting on your nerves.  
  
“And there’s product in his hair.”  
  
Jonathon mocked you, “ _Product. Christ, you’re so sterile, sometimes.”_  
  
“Well, there has to be because the wind is blowing and his hair isn’t.” Jonathon laughed, and kept firing questions at you. He wanted to know every little detail. _God, he’s so nosy,_ you thought.  
  
You quit listening to him, too busy recording the details on your mental legal pad. This man, you thought, didn’t even look like Justin’s type; he was obviously steeped in wealth. He wore it like underwear, like an afterthought. He moved with ease even though he was obviously a little nervous.  
  
And you wondered why.  
  
The juxtaposition of the two of them standing there on your sidewalk gave you pause. Justin was doing that thing that he’d done the night you met him. He was giving off that air of confidence, of certainty, even though he stood there in almost unraveling jeans that fell too long on his sneakers. Why Justin would want this man--that you could understand. Why he’d want Justin, though, became more of a puzzle as you lurked in the shadows. You told Jonathon as much, and he seemed incredulous, “ _You can’t understand why an older, wealthy man would be interested in someone like Justin? Is that what you just said?”_ Over the years, there’d been times in your conversations with Jonathon that you became aware that he was suddenly on the clock with you. That was precisely one of those moments. “ _Do we really need to have this conversation? I hope you have insurance.”_ You sighed into the phone. “ _Been a long time since you looked in the mirror, Dan?_  
  
 _Yeah, but this guy’s really tall,_ you thought.  
  
“ _You should start charging yourself. You’d be a gazillionaire.”_  
  
Had Jonathon been one of those strip-mall shrinks who needed a slogan in the _Yellow Pages_ to attract the herd, it would’ve read: _Dr. Jonathon Massey, Psycho-analytic Psychiatry……..Adding insult to injury for fifteen years….and counting._  
  
Were you really like this guy? Did the air move out of your way when you took a step forward? Was your self-confidence that ubiquitous? Were you just as addicted to comparisons as Jonathon?  
  
Was Jonathon still on the phone?  
  
Apparently.  
  
You watched Justin until he disappeared inside the limo. The windows were tinted. The curtain went down on your peep show.  
  
****************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _when you walked into the room  
there was voo doo in the vibes_  
  
The cool air of that New York City evening transformed into a warmth that you were almost leery of when you slipped inside the limousine. You glanced down at the clothes you had on and felt distinctly like there must be cameras somewhere filming the _Candid Camera_ version of _Cinderfella_. When you looked back up, Brian was smiling at you, his hand moving to rest on your thigh. You watched his fingers drape over your leg and thought they felt heavy. But not as heavy as the cloak of false pretense that Brian was wearing. There’d never been a moment in Brian’s life, you were certain, when his presence somewhere didn’t have an underlying meaning or motivation. When you smiled back, he squeezed your leg. You wrapped your fingers over his hand in an attempt to hold on to something.  
  
Before you lost it.  
  
It was never in Brian’s nature to be vague, and you felt more comfortable as he began to give a destination to the driver. You didn’t know why he was really here, but watching him boss someone around made you feel safer than you thought you should; yet you couldn’t remember where he’d just asked to be taken. When the limousine stopped in front of a nice, expensive hotel, your mind tried to stay one step ahead of him and failed, “You want to fuck?” you asked him, your face turning red immediately afterwards when you realized that you’d actually said those words to the chauffeur as he was opening the door for you and not to Brian. The chauffeur was kind enough to ignore the offer.  
  
Once you were both on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, Brian touched the small of your back just as he had the last time you stood on a New York City sidewalk with him, “It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but I thought we’d have dinner first.” His eyebrow barely went up.  
  
“Oh,” and Brian was holding the door open for you. The realization hit you so fast as you stepped into the bright lobby, that you stopped on a dime and Brian stopped himself from running into you, “But wait, look at me……look at _you_ ,” you gestured from yourself to him. “I mean, I’m not dressed.”  
  
Brian’s arm found its way around your shoulders as he leant down and spoke to the top of your head, “Let me tell you a secret.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There are two tiers of social acceptance when you have money.”  
  
You looked up at him like he was high, “Huh?”  
  
“The first tier is when you want people to know you have money, so you dress for where you _want_ to be and not where you are.”  
  
“Okay,” you said, not really understanding what the fuck he was talking about as he propelled you towards a nice restaurant in the hotel.  
  
“The second is when you dress for where you are because where _you_ are is where people want to be.”  
  
“So, I take it _The Gap_ is where people want to be?” you asked, wondering if you were wearing _Gap_ jeans or not. You couldn’t recall at the moment.  
  
Brian took the opportunity to feign a gaze at your ass, “I think you mean _Abercrombie and Fitch._  
  
“Right.”  
  
Brian pulled your chair out for you, and you felt, well, weird, like maybe this was a dream. Only it couldn’t be because the wine was too good. You made small talk about what you were going to order, and when the waiter returned, Brian took your menu out of your hand and ordered for you before you could even open your mouth, “He’ll have the twelve ounce filet, medium, baked potato, butter, no sour cream, House Vinaigrette on the salad. I’ll have the same only steamed vegetables instead of a baked potato, and I’d like my filet very medium rare.”  
  
“Very well, sir.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Whoa, that was efficient,” you remarked.  
  
He ignored your comment, “You look good.”  
  
……  
  
“Thanks. So do you.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“So tell me what you’re up to.”  
  
……  
  
“Are you staying in town tonight?” It was like you were playing tennis with each other but on different courts.  
  
“I can.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And in a ten-second delay that coincided with the delivery of your salad and the loss of your appetite, you suddenly felt the smile, the kindness, in his voice.  
  
“Justin, I didn’t come here to fuck.”  
  
And then dread.  
  
The dread of knowing you’d been right since the moment he called forty-five minutes ago and told you he was in town. The dread of realizing that you were about to be, well, _dumped._  
  
You tried to stuff the feeling somewhere inconspicuous but it seemed to begin residing in the pitch of your voice, “You didn’t?” You thought about everything you’d done for yourself, everything you’d accomplished since you set foot in New York, how you were a fool to think you could have both Brian and a life, to have ever walked away from what you had, what you could’ve had with him. How the trepidation you’d felt the times you’d broken it off with him never felt like _this._ You’d never been dumped before, never felt like he didn’t want you. _Never._  
  
“You’re making me nervous as hell,” you said, the words finally emerging from the mosh pit in your brain and tumbling out of your mouth.  
  
The waiter picked that moment to come refill your wine glasses. You watched the dark liquid rise in your glass, and then in Brian’s. Brian was staring at you as if to say, ‘ _Just a second.’_ Whatever it was, was so bad that he couldn’t say it in front of the—  
  
“Justin, I came because I wanted to see you.”  
  
****************  
 _I’ve got a girl in Paris,  
I’ve got a girl in Rome,  
I’ve even got a girl in the Vatican Dome_  
  
“Could you pass me the bread?” you asked, pressing your napkin into your lap. You realized you hadn’t eaten all day.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
You buttered your roll a little too deliberately, and half of it fell on your plate as you asked, “You have business here tomorrow or something?”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You wished your wine glass felt more substantial in your hand. “Awfully tan for November.”  
  
He smiled, “Cabo.”  
  
“Cabo? Working or fucking?”  
  
His expression on his face seemed to open a little, like he was glad you were interested, “A lot of the former, a little of the latter.” Your steak arrived and the waiter went to take your salad away and you stopped him. You weren’t done with it. “Kinnetik is working on a print and website campaign for _Centauro_. It’s a Destination Management Company.” He spoke of Kinnetik, the name you’d given his company, almost as if it wasn’t his.  
  
 _Destination Management._  
  
“More wine, sir?” the waiter asked him before leaving.  
  
“Please,” Brian replied.  
  
“May I please have some water?” you asked.  
  
“Certainly, sir.”  
  
“The wine isn’t to your liking?” Brian asked as the waiter walked away. “I can order something else.”  
  
“No, it’s delicious. It’s perfect. I just want some water.”  
  
Brian nodded, and then continued the conversation, “So what about you?”  
  
He confused you for a second, “What about me?”  
  
“What are you doing more of? The former or the latter?”  
  
The waiter sat ice water down in front of both of you. “Anything else right now, gentlemen?”  
  
“No. No, thank you.” Your server walked away and you looked up. Brian’s hands were clasped in front of his face. He was waiting for your answer. You weren’t sure if you were being seduced or interviewed, or worse, maybe neither.  
  
You swallowed your potato, “The former, I suppose.” You made him smile. “And a little of the latter.”  
  
……  
  
“The man in the window?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The man in the window. Is he the latter?”  
  
You’d stood outside Daniel’s place for ten minutes waiting for Brian; you had no idea Daniel had been in the window.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hmm. I’d pictured you living in more of a hovel.”  
  
“That’s where I _work._ That’s my studio.” Brian looked like if he wasn’t being so polite, he might not believe you. “It has a skylight so it has really good light and lots of space.”  
  
“Sounds nice.”  
  
“And it’s on the second floor.”  
  
You had no idea why you said that.  
  
****************  
 _you're thinkin' maybe if you said goodbye  
you'll understand the reason why_  
  
The conversation stalled, which in retrospect you know was because you were both eating. It gave you time to chew your food and notice things about Brian. He’d just had a manicure, you could tell. And you thought that he must have shaved in the middle of the day because his face looked so smooth. You were running out of food to occupy yourself with, and you were so hungry, you could have eaten another steak. His leg brushed yours under the table.  
  
“Sorry,” you said, tucking your feet under your chair.  
  
“That was my fault.”  
  
But what struck you more than anything was that he seemed relaxed. Happy? Satisfied? “Are you dumping me?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Don’t be Captain Cryptic, just tell me. Are you moving on?” The speed with which the words were coming out of your mouth shocked you, and they were your words. “I mean, you know, just rip off the band-aid.”  
  
He seemed to study you before he answered, like you were a new species on _Animal Planet_ or something, “There’s no band-aid.”  
  
It was your turn not to believe him, “There’s not?”  
  
He almost laughed, “No. No band-aid.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But there is dessert. If you want it,” he said, handing you the dessert menu.  
  
Since when did being nervous make you ravenous? “No, I’m fine……But if you want to—"  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
You were both fine.  
  
****************  
 _speculate who had been damaged the most_  
  
A chill cut through your clothes as you stood outside the hotel with Brian, trying to warm yourself with the smoke of your cigarette. You were buzzing a little, the two of you having finished off almost two bottles of an Alexander Valley Merlot. Brian sucked on his cigarette the way he always did when there was something on his mind.  
  
You wondered what he’d come here not to tell you.  
  
You wondered why he didn’t take you upstairs and fuck you senseless.  
  
You wondered if you should make the first move, but there was something about the look on his face that seemed to indicate otherwise. And if Brian came here in a limo, dressed to kill, bought you an absurdly expensive dinner, and didn’t even show any interest having you for dessert that could only mean one thing, “Are you dying? I mean, the cancer’s not back, is it?” You didn’t mean for your concern to sound like an accusation.  
  
“Why the fuck does everyone always think I’m dying?”  
  
“Sorry…so, you’re not? Sick, I mean?”  
  
Brian sighed as he stared across the street, “No, I’m not dying. And I’ve been trying to figure out all day how to tell you this, and I don’t have a clue—"  
  
“Tell me what?” Another chill, and your cigarette was still a piece of shit.  
  
Brian leaned against the stone wall of the hotel and looked at you, “Hobbs is dead. He was killed this morning.”  
  
Your eyebrows went up farther than you thought possible, “What? Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m sure. Construction accident. He fell out of a lift,” Brian waved his hand in the air as if acting out the next part of his sentence, “It was really windy, I guess.”  
  
“He died—"  
  
“Instantly.”  
  
“Whoa.”  
  
For some reason, you found comfort in staring at your sneakers.  
  
“I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me,” Brian said, putting his hand on your shoulder like he barely knew you, “And I didn’t want you to be alone.” You felt horrible and not because Chris was dead, but because Brian had been lugging this news around with him all day. You’d seen what things like this did to him, and you immediately wanted to take his discomfort away. Seeing Brian uncomfortable in his own skin was an unbearable sight, and you’d only witnessed it a few times in your life. Both of your cigarettes had been discarded sometime during that exchange, and you stepped forward to shorten the distance between you. It was the first time that night that you felt like you belonged that close to him.  
  
Your hand rested on his upper arm, “It’s okay. It’s all right.” Brian looked at you like your concern for him was a sticky film he needed to peel off. “It’s just hard to believe.”  
  
“Never in a million years did I think that someday I’d be standing on a street in New York City having this conversation with you.”  
  
“Me neither.”  
  
Brian glanced up at the hotel, “I can stay. We can get a room…or you can home with me for a few days. I’ve got tickets on a flight back tonight.”  
  
He wasn’t going to leave; that old feeling of being almost vigilantly guarded by him was one you hadn’t felt in years. And after all that time and way too much wine, it felt really good.  
  
“Can we take the limo to the airport?” you asked him.  
  
“Nah, I thought we’d take a Greyhound.”  
  
****************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _no I would not give you false hope  
on this strange and mournful day_  
  
Back in the limo, you hit the intercom for your driver as he was heading for the airport, “Don’t. Just keep going.”  
  
“ _Keep going, sir?”_  
  
“To Pittsburgh.” You looked at Justin, although his body was revealing more to you at that moment, slumped hard against you, his eyes haunted with a quiet stillness that seemed so foreign and yet so familiar at the same time. “Take us home.” For the first time since you’d told him, you saw his body relax a little. You gave his shoulder a squeeze.  
  
Through the years, so many of Justin’s demons had been brimming on the surface that you often took it for granted that you could see them, touch them, give them advice they weren’t going to take. You shook your head, lost in your thoughts about candy-pink shirts and concealed weapons.  
  
Looking at him now, you weren’t sure if he’d matured or the demons had just gotten smarter.  
  
“When’s the funeral again?” he asked as the driver pulled onto the interstate.  
  
“Friday morning.”  
  
It was Wednesday night, November 12, 2008. You took your plane tickets out of your jacket pocket and dropped them into your briefcase lodged beside you. Justin watched you as they disappeared from his view and then went back to staring out the window, ‘I didn’t say we couldn’t fly back.”  
  
“Better this way.”  
  
You couldn’t imagine dragging him out of the warmth of the limo to go through security, to have to suffer through obnoxious airline passengers. The tickets were bought at the last minute and your seats weren’t even together. It’d been the best you could do at the time.  
  
He yawned a few times and you told him, “If you’re tired, lie down.” He glanced up at you for a few seconds, and you brought your face to his, holding the back of his head as you kissed him. You felt weightless when your mouths touched, all of the blood in your limbs racing to get back to your heart. There was an implicit need for the moment to be more than it was, but you both ignored it, content to let the tenuous connection between you strengthen on its own.  
  
His eyes opened briefly when he felt your hand slide underneath his shirt and then closed again as if his body remembered the path your palm always took. When he felt your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants, he lifted his hips, rising into your hand. The inside of the car was so quiet that you could enjoy the sound of his body rustling against yours.  
  
“ _Please,”_ he whispered into your mouth, moaning softly as you opened his pants, his damp underwear making you smile. You thanked the inventor of tinted windows and chauffeurs as you pushed them halfway down his thighs. He pressed his cock into your hand, “God, get me off.”  
  
You took your time; it was going to be a long ride home.  
  
He held onto you like the lovesick teenager he no longer was, his fingers twisting in your hair as your hand passed over the head of his cock. You squeezed, and he said your name like he was feeding you each letter one by one. He ran his hand down your arm, covering your hand with his, and pressed it down the length of his dick. Your other hand clasped the back of his head to keep him falling as he showed you what he wanted.  
  
As if you needed to be told.  
  
Eventually, he came in your hand, folding himself into your lap as you covered him with your recently purchased, almost black jacket from the _2008 Prada Fall Collection_ , whose theme that year had been _Shrouded Success._ Your right hand snugged back between his warm legs.  
  
 _Talk about the lap of luxury._  
  
****************  
 _’cause it’s only in your heart  
this thing that makes you want to  
start it all again_  
  
The night that Justin got hurt, you sat on a bench in the hospital corridor unable to stop the tears from streaming down your face. That night, as you rode with him back to Pittsburgh, his body eventually curled on the seat, his head in your lap, you thought about how grateful you were that tonight you could be with him, that you could touch him, and then it struck you that seven years after that incident, he still looked like a boy when he closed his eyes. Your hand brushed lightly through his hair, your fingers skimming over his scar.  
  
Jennifer called your cell phone after not getting an answer on Justin's and you spoke to her in a hushed voice, "Hey. He's asleep. I couldn't reach his phone."  
  
" _Is he okay?"_  
  
"I guess so; he hasn't really said much since I told him."  
  
" _I thought you'd be back here by now."_  
  
"We opted not to fly. We're driving back." You glanced down to be sure you weren’t disturbing him. He’d had enough wine, apparently. Jennifer wasn’t saying anything in that way that she sometimes does. “What’s wrong?”  
  
She sighed, “ _I did something stupid.”_  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _Only because-- I just felt like I should.”_  
  
“I’m lost. Help me out.”  
  
“ _I called Craig. You know, to tell him. I thought, like an idiot, that he’d want to know… that Chris Hobbs is dead.”_  
  
“And?”  
  
…..  
  
“ _He said, ‘Who?’”_  
  
“I suppose you set him straight, so to speak.”  
  
“ _The conversation just went downhill from there.”_  
  
“Jennifer, I meant what I said before. I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it.”  
  
“ _I don’t want you to have to.”_  
  
“Sever your ties with him. You might as well do it now. It’s only going to be harder later.”  
  
“ _I don’t suppose there’s any reason not to. Molly’s old enough to make her own decisions now.”_  
  
“Just do it. And when you’re all done, let me know, and I’ll take you bowling.”  
  
“ _No way. You’ll kill me. You’re probably really, really good.”_  
  
“Yeah, well, I’ve had lots of practice.”  
  
****************  
 _he wore his passion for his woman like a thorny crown_  
  
You woke Justin up about when you were about thirty minutes from the loft, amazed that he’d slept for so long. He was disoriented, almost forgetting where he was.  
  
The only light on in the loft when you got inside was the low one over the sink, and he glanced around, commenting on the look of the place and then walked over to your table where you had mock-ups strewn about, “You’re working out of the loft?”  
  
“Sometimes. I can concentrate here. I often work at Kinnetik in the morning, and then finish out my afternoon here.”  
  
Justin glanced in the direction of the bedroom, “It seems so much emptier than I remember it.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not here very much.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
You weren’t sure if he’d want to go to bed after sleeping for so long, but then he walked toward the bedroom, so you followed him. He stood in front of your closet as if analyzing what was inside as you hung up your jacket and loosened your tie. “You okay?” you asked him, your voice quiet as if he was still asleep. He almost seemed like he was.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
You turned back toward him and reached for him, feeling that if you didn’t, he might fall. Pulling him toward you gently, your fingers toyed with the hem of one of his five thousand cotton shirts, “You sure?”  
  
“I wanna get in bed,” he said, almost to your chest.  
  
You leaned over and tossed the covers back, and he sat down, lying back and watching you as you shed the rest of your clothes. He moved over a little as you slid under the covers, and you stared at him for a few seconds before you started undressing him. He bent his knees so you could untie his shoes, his hand rubbing your upper back. His clothes off, he joined you under the covers, pressing himself against you. You’d wanted to make love to him for the last six or so hours, that and fucking seeming like two things that suddenly couldn’t be more different. You wrapped him in your arms, and he hooked his leg over yours, your hand eventually skimming up and down it as the soft moans coming from both of you filled the room.  
  
The only two things that sell, sex and death, and you had front row center for both that night.  
  
His skin was soft and warm like it always was, and the look on his face was one you’d seen before. You closed your eyes as you kissed him and tried to ignore the flashes of blue skating behind your eyelids. And you weren’t a fool. Sometimes sex is lust and desire and sometimes its familiarity and comfort. For some reason, your mind told you to fight this notion, but your body wouldn’t listen. It felt familiar enough to know that it was a calm before an unknown storm. You whispered into his ear, “Open your eyes,” and looked to see if he knew what was coming.  
  
He told you he loved you and closed them again, a small, peaceful smile on his face, a hint of nothing.  
  
And in some other place far away from you, you could see him standing, surrounded as always by the brightest light, so bright now that it was blinding him.  
  
“I love you, too,” you told him, your right hand cupping his ass as you inched inside him, incapable of picking up the pace. The last time you’d fucked him, you wouldn’t let him cling to you like he was now, his legs wound tightly around your waist.  
  
You filled him over and over again trying to fuck away the emptiness.  
  
****************  
 _easy time will determine  
if these consolations  
will be their reward_  
  
Jennifer came over that next morning to see Justin, and you dressed as if you were going to the office.  
  
“You’re going to work?” he asked you.  
  
“Just for a little bit. Got a couple things to do. Give you some time with your mom. I’ll call you when I’m done and see if you’re ready for lunch.”  
  
He glanced down the black trash bag in your hand, “Why are you taking out the trash? There’s nothing in it.”  
  
You thought fast on your feet, “Documents in here. Financial. They have to be shredded. It’s the law.”  
  
Justin looked at you like you were an idiot, “So buy a shredder.”  
  
The kiss you were trying to give him turned into a hug, although Jennifer had already turned away, “I won’t be gone long.”  
  
****************  
 _I’m too sexy for Milan,  
too sexy for Milan,  
New York and Japan  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, November 13, 2008. The time is eleven-o-eight a.m. The current temperature is fifty-two degrees under partly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now.”_  
  
“TAYLOR ELECTRONICS.”  
  
 _"Thank you. Taylor Electronics is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”_  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
 _At this time, there are two new messages available. Press--_ "  
  
“ONE.”  
  
 _"Today, three fifty-three a.m. Brian, it’s Rube. Listen, um, there was sort of an incident here at the club tonight, but don’t panic or—"  
  
Shit.  
  
“--it’s no big deal…..it’s just that somehow a girl got into the backroom last night before anybody realized—"  
  
Dumb asses. Tits might have been a clue.  
  
“—I mean, it was really kind of funny because she was actually sucking some guy off-"  
  
Christ.  
  
“—see she had a baseball cap on, and the guy had his hand on her head while she was, you know, blowing him and he sort of pushed her hat off, and then all this long, brown hair came flowing down, and then there was sort of this mass exodus from the backroom. Brian, you have never seen so many screaming queens in your life—"  
  
I’ll bet.  
  
“—um okay, but the thing is, that wasn’t really the incident. It was sort of what happened afterward. Okay, well anyway, I’ve attached the files from your security camera so you can see for yourself. It’s really late, gotta go.”_  
  
“SAVE. TWO.”  
  
” _Thank you. Today, three fifty-nine a.m. Brian, it’s Rube, again. Listen, um, please don’t fire me. I love my job.”_  
  
“SAVE. UPLOAD ATTACHMENTS.”  
  
“ _Uploading attachments. Thank you.  
  
“Files have been cleaned and uploaded.”_  
  
“PLAY ATTACHMENTS.”  
  
“ _Playing. Thank you.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
 _Oh my god, that son of a bitch._  
  
“STOP. RE-CUE. ENHANCE AUDIO.”  
  
“ _Thank you. File is re-cued. Audio is enhanced.”_  
  
“PLAY ATTACHMENTS.”  
  
“ _Playing. Thank you.”  
  
“……Come on in, babe.”  
  
“Is this your office? It’s really nice.”  
  
“Nah, this is Boss Man’s office.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“…but he let’s me use it whenever I want. Come over here, where it’s comfortable….What’s your name again?”  
  
“Julie.”  
  
“Julie. Pretty name. And what exactly were you doing in the backroom?”  
  
“I think you saw what I was doing.” Christ, stop giggling. And stop touching him.  
  
“Hmmm, yeah, that feels good. Just wondering why you’d even go back there in the first place.”  
  
“Curious, I guess. Always wondered what goes on.”  
  
“Boss Man doesn’t like broads in the back. Against the rules.”  
  
“Maybe your ‘Boss Man’ needs to loosen up a little.” I hate to tell you this bitch, I think you’re about to be loosened up. “Sounds like he’s a little uptight.”  
  
“His club. His rules.”  
  
“What’re your rules?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Can’t say I have any rules.” That’s the understatement of the century.  
  
“So, I’m not in trouble with  you, just with your boss, who’s not here?” Bat those eyelashes any harder and they’ll fall off.  
  
“Yeah, you’re definitely not in trouble with me.”  
  
“Not yet….God, I love these pillows. They’re so soft.” Get her license or get a lawyer, Lover Boy. “Ooh, you’re heavy…..and a good kisser.”  
  
“I’ll show you what else I’m good—_”  
  
“STOP. ARCHIVE IN.”  
  
“ _Archiving. Please specify location.”_  
  
“ZEEK. PERSONNEL FILE.”  
  
“ _I’m sorry. I can’t locate that file—_ ”  
  
“CREATE FILE. ZEEK. PERSONNEL.”  
  
“ _Thank you. File created and archived. Mr. Kinney, you are one mile from your destination. Have a productive--.”_  
  
“DIAL. ZEEK. CELL.”  
  
“ _Thank you. Dialing. Zeek. Cell.”_  
  
****************  
 _there’s a new kid in town_  
……  
  
…..  
  
“ _Yo, Boss Man, you must have a crystal ball or somethin’; I was just about to call you._ ”  
  
“Imagine that.”  
  
“ _I’m at your house, man, and I can’t remember where you put the key.”_  
  
“I left all of those instructions with Cynthia. Did you go by Kinnetik first, like I told you to?”  
  
“ _Yeah, man, but I can’t hear nothin’ when she’s talkin’ to me. She’s too damn pretty. Too. Damn. Pretty.”_  
  
“The key is behind the loose brick on the side of the front steps.”  
  
“ _Loose brick. Loose brick…Found it, man. Hey, you want me to fix that loose brick for you?”_  
  
“So now you lay bricks at my house and chicks in my office?”  
  
…..  
  
…..  
  
“ _Aw, man, I knew Rube wouldn’t keep his big mouth shut. It wasn’t like that, man. She was all talkin’ about ‘discrimination’ and shit, so I had to--_ ”  
  
“Show her that you don’t discriminate?”  
  
……  
  
“ _Well, yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.”_  
  
“I _saw_ where you put it, Zeek. When I asked you to bounce for me last night, I assure you that wasn’t what I meant.”  
  
“ _Aw, man, and that girl could bounce, too. Damn, she was hot. And I mean HOT. And no panties, man. Not even a thong, man. Nothin’._ ”  
  
“Zeek, listen to me. Are you listening?”  
  
“ _Yeah, I’m listening, Boss Man. What’s wrong with your lock?”_  
  
“It sticks. Lift up a little.”  
  
“ _That’s what she said, man. That’s what she said.”_  
  
“Zeek—"  
  
“ _Want me to fix this lock for you?”_  
  
 _”Mr. Kinney, you have arrived at your destin—_ ”  
  
 _Shut the fuck up._  
  
“No, I don’t want you to fix my lock. I want you and your mojo to stay the hell out of my office.”  
  
“ _You need to update your lingo, man. Now where are those paintings?”_  
  
“Go to the top of the stairs, make a left, third door down is a guest room. They’re in that closet.”  
  
“ _And you want which one where?”_  
  
“The larger one at Zeal and the small one where you were laying pipe last night. And don’t forget that my new refrigerator is coming today—"  
  
“ _Dude’s pulling up right now…Gotta go, man…………….Damn, he’s hot.”_  
  
“Zeek!”  
  
****************  
 _but today the way I play the game is not the same_  
  
The bell on the door of Taylor Electronics rang obnoxiously as you walked inside where you were immediately greeted by someone you assumed was the manager. He was wearing an actual dress shirt as opposed to the other employees who were in uniform. It was white, but dingy, with tiny holes from the million different places he’d pinned his name tag, _Rob_  
  
“Good morning, sir? What can I do for you?”  
  
“Well, Rob, I’m in the market for several wide screen plasma televisions. I own several clubs and restaurants and need something impressive for my bar areas.”  
  
“I think we can help you.”  
  
“Well, I hope so because I really make a point of supporting local owned businesses, so I’d like to do that business here.”  
  
“We certainly appreciate that.” Rob masked his excitement about as well as a Cocker Spaniel can.  
  
“But you know, this is going to be a rather substantial purchase. I’d prefer to deal directly with the owner. Is he or she around?”  
  
“Oh, absolutely. Mr. Taylor’s here. I’ll get him for you.”  
  
“Thank you very much.” You wandered over to the plasma television display and waited, jingling your keys in the pocket of your dark gray suit pants.  
  
You didn’t have to wait long.  
  
****************  
 _every man's got his patience  
and here's where mine ends_  
  
The smile on Craig’s face faded the instant you turned around. “Craig, good to see you again.” You extended your hand. He ignored it.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“I came to refresh your memory. Rob, could you excuse us? Perhaps we could talk in your office.” Craig’s office was as unattractive as he was. The obvious sheen on your suit only made him look shabbier. He stood behind his desk and didn’t offer you a seat. You pulled that morning’s newspaper clipping out of your jacket pocket, “Had a conversation with Jennifer yesterday. She informed me that you don’t remember this man.” You tried to hand him the article with Hobbs’s picture, but he wouldn’t take it, so you held it up in front of his face instead. “Amnesia acting up again?”  
  
“Get that out of my face.”  
  
“Look familiar, now?”  
  
“I know who that is. And I know he’s dead.”  
  
“That he is.” You laid the clipping on his desk and continued, “Died a rather sudden, violent death. Similar to the one Justin almost had seven years ago.”  
  
“I don’t need you to remind me what happened to my son _because of you._ ”  
  
“Now, see that’s where you wrong.” Ordinarily, you’d begin an authoritative pace at this point, but Craig’s office was woefully inadequate for that. “You do need me to remind you because I’m the one that watched over him until he got out of the hospital, took care of him, even listened to him wake up screaming almost every night for more than two years.”  
  
“You ‘took care of him’ because you wanted him to ‘take care of you,’ you mother fucker.”  
  
“That’s certainly not very Christian of you.” You sat down, finally, and got comfortable, “And you know, Craig, I have a son. And I can assure you, father to father, that if anyone ever threatened my son and attempted to kill him, there’d be hell to pay. And that, quite frankly, is what I’ve never understood about you. It’s a visceral instinct to protect your children, and yet you don’t have it. You choose to blame him for who he is and the circumstances that have befallen him. Parents make sacrifices for their children, Craig, every day. And sometimes one of those sacrifices is learning to love them despite the fact that they’re nothing you wanted them to be.”  
  
“I want you to leave. Get out of my store.”  
  
You ignored him. “There’s one more thing I want to talk to you about, and then I’ll be going back home to be with your son, or, as you call him, ‘the abomination.’”  
  
Craig stood at those words and said, “Get. Out.”  
  
“Sit down.”  
  
“I’ll call the police.”  
  
“Go right ahead. The chief of police is practically my immediate family. Knock yourself out.” He sat down. “Jennifer tells me that you’re restricting where Molly can go to school.”  
  
“There are plenty of excellent Christian universities for her to choose from, and that’s none of your fucking business.”  
  
You sighed, “See, the thing is, Craig, where Molly goes to school is going to be up to Molly. Not you and your tight purse strings. I’ve already set up a trust to pay for her education. She won’t need a dime of your money.”  
  
“You—"  
  
“You can thank me later. So, now that that’s done, there’s really no need for you to have any contact with Jennifer, Molly, or Justin, unless you’re interested in being a positive father figure for them. If not, then I expect you to stay the hell away from all three of them. They have no need for anything but your affection, which, from what I’ve been told, is in rather short supply.” You stood when you were finished; you’d concluded your business with Craig Taylor for today.  
  
“Don’t threaten me.”  
  
“It’s not a threat, Craig. It’s a challenge, one that I seriously doubt you’re man enough to meet. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go spend time with Justin. He’s in town…for the funeral. Amazing to me how much class he has when he clearly got so little from you.”  
  
You swung open Craig’s office door and stepped back onto the showroom floor. Craig was right behind you, “Rob, make sure that man never comes in here again.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”  
  
“Have a productive day, Craig,” you told him as the bell squawked over your head. You drove your car behind Taylor Electronics, got out, and threw the black trash bag in their dumpster.  
  
You had no use for that tux or that scarf anymore.  
  
****************  
 **DAPHNE’S POV**  
  
 _however do you need me_  
  
The night of your prom seven years ago should have been a happy one. Your memories of getting ready, doing your hair, wiggling into your peach dress, waiting not-very-patiently for Justin to arrive should make you feel good. They shouldn’t be followed by images of white and black soiled with red, of Brian in tears and hoarse from screaming. And you should’ve done something when you were waiting outside the girl’s bathroom in the hotel hallway, when Chris and his friend told you what a pretty fag hag you made. Had you known what kind of violence he would be capable of less than an hour later, you would’ve done something, would’ve told someone, would’ve kept your eyes open and warned Justin to be careful.  
  
But you thought you’d lost your brand new lip gloss and besides, you’d heard it all before.  
  
You received two phone calls yesterday, but only one that you knew of—from Brian, letting you know that he’d send you a ticket if you could come home. The second came after you were on your way to the airport. That one you’d find out about in about an hour after setting foot back in Pittsburgh.  
  
When you arrived at the loft, Justin was there, alone with his mother. He seemed surprised to see you. When you hugged him, he held on for longer than usual. Med school kept you busy; you should’ve made more time for him instead of hearing about his life through Maya, once removed. But he seemed happy, and you figured if he wasn’t, he’d let you know. Anytime you’d assumed anything about Justin, the world had a way of auto-correcting you. Someday, you’d learn that lesson.  
  
Jennifer departed and left the two of you alone, and you immediately looked for signs that Justin wasn’t okay, but you came up empty. Or rather, he seemed empty. Or blank. Or something.  
  
But yet he responded when you sat down beside him and reached for his hand and let him know that you were there for him. “Thanks, Daph. It means a lot to me that you came all this way.”  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
Without being pressed, he told you what he knew, reciting details like they came from a police report. And then, “He’s survived by his wife and their son. Ryan. He’s not even a year old.” He looked around the loft, “I had the paper, the obituary. I don’t know where I put it.”  
  
“Are _you_ surviving?”  
  
“I’m going to the funeral tomorrow. Emmett showed up with a suit for me this morning. I don’t have anything here to wear.”  
  
“I suppose Brian put him up to that?”  
  
“I’m sure. But if I change my mind, he won’t care. It seems like every time I see him, he’s twice as rich as before.”  
  
“Must be nice.”  
  
Justin’s eyes glanced around the loft and then landed back on your face, ”Yeah, it is.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“I just have to see them put him in the ground. I don’t know why. I just feel like I have to.”  
  
“I’d like to go with you. I don’t suppose it would hurt me to see that either.”  
  
You listened to the second call you’d received yesterday when Brian came home with lunch and a case of cold beer. It was a reporter asking for your reaction to Hobbs's death. You hung up the phone, forgetting to delete the message.  
  
You told Brian about it a few hours later. It took him by surprise.  
  
****************  
 _baby, gonna get my soul free_  
  
The cemetery was packed. The dead leaves along the narrow road blew onto the grass as Brian’s driver came to a stop. The funeral procession had been much longer than you’d anticipated, although you weren’t a part of it, and was sprinkled with more police than you were expecting to see along the way. When you remarked that the place seemed overrun, Justin replied,  
  
“Hobbs’s dad was a bigwig in the construction industry. These people are probably out here for him, not Chris. It’s just a weird show of support.”  
  
As you turned a corner on the cemetery’s property, you noticed that the car that had been behind you since the three of you left the loft turned as well. You leaned forward and told him, “Brian, I think we’re being followed.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There’s a gray Honda Prelude that’s been behind us since we left the loft. It just stopped when we did.”  
  
Brian’s hand moved from Justin’s shoulder to the back of the seat as he turned around, “Fuck.” Before you could stop him, he was opening the door.  
  
Justin tried to stop him, “Brian, what the fuck are you doing?”  
  
“Back in a minute,” and he slammed the door.  
  
Watching Brian’s body tense as he spoke to the occupants of the mysterious car made you nervous, but you smiled through it. Justin didn’t turn around. When Brian’s arm started waving and pointing, as if he was directing traffic, you told Justin, “He’s coming back.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“It’s the press,” Brian said, getting back into the car.  
  
“What does the press want with us?” you asked Brian.  
  
“They wouldn’t tell me. I told them to get the fuck off our tail.” You gave Brian a look that he knew was a question, _Have you told Justin about the phone call I got?_ Brian looked back with ‘no’ as his answer and then, “Justin, I think it’s better if you stay in the car.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Don’t trust those people.”  
  
Justin seemed almost relieved, “That’s fine. Just have him pull over there and we’ll just watch from the limo.” The driver made his way to a parking space several hundred feet away from Chris’s plot. Justin turned in his seat and stared out the window.  
  
From what you could see from your vantage point, there were plenty of Pittsburgh’s finest on hand and definitely Chris’s wife standing closest to the casket with a baby in her arms. He was crying. You stared down at your black dress and your black shoes and then fiddled with the rings on your fingers.  
  
When the casket had been lowered, mourners began to make their way back to their cars, with the exception of Chris’s immediately family. Once they finally started walking away, Justin told Brian he wanted to get out.  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Just move. I’m getting out.” Brian opened his door and indicated that he was going with him, and Justin told him ‘no,’ that he wanted to do this by himself. You rolled down your window and looked at Brian, who was leaning against the limo. The two of you watched in silence as Justin walked towards Chris’s resting place.  
  
“God, I want to smoke,” he told you.  
  
“Me, too.”  
  
“A med student who wants to smoke? How ironic.” You both laughed.  
  
A glance at Justin and he just seemed to be standing there over Chris’s grave with a determined look on his face. Brian startled you when he tapped your arm, pointing to someone walking toward Justin, “Fuck.”  
  
“Shit, Brian, that’s his wife.”  
  
The baby, no longer crying, was in her arms.  
  
****************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _and the course of a lifetime runs  
over and over again_  
  
Chris’s wife was as tall as Justin with almost the exact same hair color. She took purposeful steps toward her husband’s grave and toward Justin and so did you.  
  
And again, just like seven years ago, a Hobbs beat you to him.  
  
You didn’t even realize how fast you were running as you approached them, when Justin stopped you by holding out his hand. You held yourself back and watched as she stood firm in front of him, the dirt you’d kicked up running clinging to the hem of your pants.  
  
The mysterious gray car, one row over, drove away.  
  
****************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _I want a shot at redemption_  
  
Chris Hobbs wasn’t being buried alone; he was being buried alongside an eighteen year old kid who could barely even remember knowing him at all. And it should have been that kid’s decision when he’d go down; it should have been something he’d had time to prepare for. But as you stood there over his grave, you couldn’t remember ever being prepared for anything, not for meeting Brian, not for being shunned by your father or pitied by your mother, not for losing so much of your connection to those years when things were supposed to be simpler. You fought not to have that hopeful, determined kid buried alive, an identity that you didn’t even recognize being taken away from you.  
  
This kid, it seemed, was known to everyone but you. And you were torn between wanting to know him and wanting to let him go. Maybe if you stood there long enough, staring at the fresh dirt, this decision would be made for you. And if something inside of you could push you one way or another, you’d have been glad to go, but there was nothing but the roar of a still silence.  
  
And it was temporarily broken by the approach of two opposing forces.  
  
You thought you recognized her, Mary or Millie or something, the young woman coming toward you. She’d gone to school with you? As she came closer, you held your hand up to hold Brian back. The silence was paying attention.  
  
“I know who you are,” she said to you, stopping a few feet in front of you with her son on her hip. “You’re Justin Taylor.”  
  
“You’re Chris’ wife?”  
  
“Meredith. You don’t remember me?”  
  
“I’m not sure. I think I do.” The grass began to feel firm under your feet.  
  
“I suppose you’re here for a reason?”  
  
“Look, I don’t mean to intrude. I just want to put this behind me—"  
  
“To keep harassing us. You and your friend—"  
  
“I’m sorry, I should’ve waited until tomorrow or -- Keep harassing you?”  
  
“There’s no need for it anymore, okay? He’s dead. I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I had nothing to do with it. It was his idea. He can—could—be very single-minded when his temper flared.”  
  
“I never thought you had anything to do with it.”  
  
“Then why not leave us alone? It’s no wonder this happened to Chris; he was exhausted having to chaperone me everywhere I went, worrying about Ryan. I was going to quit my job and just stay home with him, but that just made us sitting ducks.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—"  
  
“Bullshit, you and your psycho friend, Cody, have been stalking Chris since that night you shoved a pistol in his mouth. Don’t think I don’t know about—"  
  
You glanced over at Brian who looked away, fighting to keep his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t even live—" you tried to tell her.  
  
“Just so you know, I’m taking out a restraining order against you—" Brian stepped forward a little as Meredith closed the space between the two of you. “I’m not afraid of you. My husband’s dead. I’m not going to end up like him.”  
  
“Meredith, I haven’t done anything. I swear.” She looked at you like she didn’t believe you. The reins that were holding Brian back had finally broken, and he was standing beside you. He put his hand on your shoulder as you told her, “I’m sorry if Cody’s been bothering you. I made my peace with Chris; I was just here trying to make it with myself.”  
  
“Justin, let’s go,” Brian said, pulling you with an arm around your shoulder.  
  
You looked back over your shoulder as you let him lead you away, “I’m sorry for your loss, Meredith, whether you believe me or not. I truly am.”  
  
****************  
 _then it came  
that I was put to blame  
for every story told about me_  
  
After the funeral, your lunch with Daphne, Brian, and your mother at the country club was winding down as you asked Brian for a cigarette.  
  
“You want me to go with you?” he asked.  
  
You told him ‘no,’ but it came out as more of a warning. You stood outside kicking dead leaves around on the sidewalk in your shiny shoes, welcoming the hard brick of the club’s main building underneath your back. Minutes passed and the door opened, revealing Daphne and your mother laughing with each other as they stepped outside.  
  
“Where are you going?” you asked them.  
  
Your mother was happy to answer you, “Brian said the limo could take us to the mall.” She practically cooed at the chauffeur as he held the door for her, “Ooh, you’re so polite.”  
  
“It’s his job, mother.”  
  
Daphne kissed you on the cheek, “Call me later.”  
  
“Yeah, have fun at _the mall._ ” You stepped on your cigarette and walked back inside.  
  
Brian raised his eyebrows as you sat back down at the table, “All right?”  
  
“Would you stop asking me that?” You sat down and finished your water before you asked, “You sent them away, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How are we supposed to get home?”  
  
“Walk?”  
  
“Walk? That far in my new shoes?”  
  
Brian shrugged, “I sense your need to punish yourself.”  
  
****************  
 _don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard_  
  
The light wind seemed to be blowing the two of you down the street, propelling your bodies forward, if not the conversation. It was overcast, and you wondered if it was going to rain. Occasionally, Brian would turn his head in your direction and smile at you, but mostly, he was just quiet, jealous you were sure of whatever was up your ass.  
  
You stopped at an intersection to wait for a WALK signal, and Brian finally spoke, “Million and a half for your thoughts.”  
  
“Jesus, you’re such a dork.”  
  
“If I’m paying for these thoughts, they need to be a little more substantial.” You shook your head at him as the two of you crossed the street.  
  
“I just don’t understand, I guess.”  
  
“Understand what?” he asked, sounding grateful that you were talking to him.  
  
“I don’t understand how I can feel so defined by something I can barely remember.”  
  
Brian thought about that for a second and said, “We’re all defined by things we can barely remember.”  
  
“But what if remembering it would change how I define myself? Maybe I’m not who I’m supposed to be.”  
  
……  
  
“You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be. We all are.”  
  
“That’s a romantic notion that can never be proven.”  
  
“How can you prove existence if existence in itself is the proof?” he asked, rhetorically, poking his tongue in his cheek. “You should’ve stayed in college and gotten this out of your system in Philosophy 101.”  
  
You abandoned the abstract, “He’s dead, and I should feel free, but I don’t. I feel more trapped than ever.” Brian put his arm around you and you pushed it off, “Don’t.”  
  
“Don’t what? Don’t tell you that you’re wrong? You are free. You’ve always been free. You’re the freest fucking person I know.”  
  
“Don’t pity me—" You stopped in front of a storefront. “The bookstore. It’s gone.”  
  
“Been gone for almost two years.”  
  
“Shit, I didn’t even know.” Brian tried to keep going, but your feet wouldn’t move. “And don’t fuck me like you feel sorry for me, like you’re worried sick about me. I’m not—"  
  
“—a tight, little virgin anymore?” he asked you.  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Brian threw up his hands in defense, “Nothing. Christ, I was trying to make you laugh, so you’d stop torturing yourself with existential melodrama.”  
  
“How come when you’re emphatic about something, you’re just right, and when I am, it’s melodrama?”  
  
“Because I’m Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake?”  
  
****************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _well, I left her to just roam the city  
thinkin’ it would ease the pain_  
  
As the two of you began walking again, you wondered if he remembered when he couldn’t walk down this street, when just getting him from point A to point B occupied entire weekends of your lives, when your absence from the loft for more than a few hours sent him into a tailspin. But to be fair, his progress had always surprised you, even when you had to fight him to want to progress at all.  
  
You turned a corner, and he asked you, “Did I ever tell you what Cody’s father does? What their family business is?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“His father refurbishes construction equipment.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Some of this angst was starting to make sense to you now, “Justin, I think you’re reaching.”  
  
“I don’t. You didn’t know him like I did.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“You didn’t know how much he got off on violence. What the fuck was I thinking?”  
  
“Look—"  
  
“I’m such an idiot, Brian, such a fucking idiot, thinking that all of that retribution crap he was spewing was for me. It had nothing to do with me; he was just using me to scratch his violent itch.” When it came to Justin, you almost always found yourself fighting the wrong enemy. You held the door to your building open for him. “God, I have to get these fucking shoes off.”  
  
He took the stairs two at a time, impatient as he waited for you to unlock the door. You watched from the kitchen as he went into the bedroom, stripped off his suit and then walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Out of habit, you turned to glance at your answering machine before you followed him.  
  
You had seventeen new messages.

****************  
 _so please, believe in me  
when I say I’m spinning round, round, round, round_  
  
You heard the shower start as you removed the drive from the machine, swapping it for a new one. You reset the machine and tucked the old drive in your briefcase. You knocked on the bathroom door and when he didn’t answer, you opened it. You watched him soaping himself with fury until he turned and saw you.  
  
“Will you let me do that for you?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, tossing the soap on the shower floor in frustration. “Fuck it.”  
  
You undressed and returned, your suit thrown on the bed in a heap with his. He leaned against the wall, staring up at you as you stood under the water, “Justin, this is my fault, okay? We should’ve stayed in New York or I shouldn’t have come up—"  
  
“Do not start that martyr bullshit with me, Brian. Everything shitty that happens to me is not your fucking fault.” His voice cracked, “Ninety-nine percent of it is my fault.”  
  
“No fair. I want more than one percent. You totally gypped me.”  
  
He laughed, even though he didn’t want to, “Don’t try to make me feel better. I don’t want to.”  
  
“Feet don’t hurt enough?” you teased him, kicking his ankle.  
  
“I thought you were gonna wash me.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“No?”  
  
You shook your head as you turned him around to face the wall, “First, I’m gonna fuck some sense into you. _Then_ , I’m going to wash you.”  
  
“Does that really work?” he asked, his fingers spread wide on the tile.  
  
“It’s gotten you this far.”  
  
That night you watched him sleep, thoroughly fucked out, his small body somehow taking up almost the entire bed. You barely slept, expecting him to wake up screaming any minute.  
  
****************  
 _paranoia strikes deep in the heartland_  
  
When you woke Saturday morning, you slid out from underneath him and into a pair of jeans. He felt you leave the bed and mumbled, “Where you going?”  
  
You sat down beside him, running your hand through his crazy-looking hair, “You smoked all my goddamn cigarettes yesterday.”  
  
“Sorry,” he yawned into his pillow.  
  
“You want breakfast? I’ll pick something up. There’s nothing to eat here.”  
  
“Waffles,” he said, pulling the covers over his head, “And hurry up.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“My ass is sore.”  
  
“I have no idea what that has to do with waffles.”  
  
“Me neither.”  
  
The air was heavy with the prospect of impending rain as you walked to your car.  
  
 _"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Saturday, November 15, 2008. The time is nine twelve a.m. The current temperature is fifty-one degrees under mostly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now.”_  
  
“DINER.”  
  
 _"Thank you. Diner is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”_  
  
“DIAL. DINER.”  
  
“ _Thank you. Dialing. Diner.”  
  
“Liberty Diner.”_  
  
“Deb, it’s me.”  
  
“ _Hey, you doing okay? I feel terrible after that thing in your office—"_  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, could you box up breakfast for Justin? Eggs, bacon, waffles instead of pancakes. I’ll be by in a few minutes.”  
  
“ _Sure. Anything for Sunshine. You want the usual? Orange juice and dry, whole wheat toast?”_  
  
“That’s fine. Is Carl up yet this morning?”  
  
“ _Is he ever.”_  
  
“I didn’t need that, Deb.” You could hear her cackling in the background. “I’ll call him.”  
  
“ _Gotta go. Betty just dropped a case of tumblers. Shit.”_  
  
You swapped the flash drive in your car with the one from the answering machine in the loft and let it play:  
  
“SCAN MESSAGES.”  
  
 _”At this time, there are seventeen new messages available. Press or say—"_  
  
“ONE.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, eleven twelve a.m. Justin, hey. I knew you’d be there. I knew you'd needed to finish this –"_  
  
“TWO.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, eleven fifteen a.m. Justin, now that you’re back in town, whaddya say we make a real statement—"_  
  
“THREE.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, eleven twenty three a.m. Justin –"_  
  
“FOUR.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, eleven forty-seven a.m. Justin, must be nice to eat at that country club. That place is crawling with the enemy—"_  
  
“FIVE.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, eleven fifty-four a.m.. Justin –"_  
  
“SIX.”  
  
 _”Yesterday, twelve twelve p.m. Justin, I hope your boyfriend understands--"_  
  
“STOP.”  
  
You called Carl and asked him to meet you at the diner immediately. He was standing outside when you arrived.  
  
“What’s the problem?”  
  
You handed him the drive, “Plug this into a USB port and listen to it. It’s that guy Cody what’s-his-name leaving message after message for Justin during and after Hobbs’s funeral yesterday. And I’m pretty sure he called Daphne, too, the day Hobbs was killed. She saved the message. I’ll get it for you.”  
  
“Should I know this ‘Cody?’”  
  
“He fancies himself the head of this gay vigilante group. They used to call it ‘The Pink Posse.’”  
  
“Are those the kids that terrorized straight people a few years ago?”  
  
You nodded, “Yeah. This guy’s a fucking whack job. He’s got a ton of firearms, too. Justin suspects, and I don’t know if he’s right, but he suspects that Cody might have had something to do with Chris’s death.”  
  
“You’re kidding?”  
  
“I wish I was. Look, I’ve got to run.” Suddenly, the thought of Justin alone at the loft didn’t sit well with you. You called Justin as you rode home with his breakfast and kept him talking until you walked in the door.  
  
****************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _on the last leg of the journey  
they started a long time ago _  
  
For some reason, Brian didn’t object when you ate your breakfast in bed, pushing the syrupy waffles all over the white Styrofoam container. When you offered him a forkful of eggs and a strip of bacon, he took it.  
  
That did it.  
  
“All right, what’s wrong with you?” you asked him, the last half of the bacon strip still in his hand.  
  
He spoke to the bacon and not to you, “Nothing.”  
  
“Bullshit. You never eat cholesterol unless something’s bothering you.”  
  
……  
  
“You have to go back.”  
  
You stared at him, “I know. I wasn’t planning on staying here forever.”  
  
“No, I mean, you have to go back tonight.”  
  
“Why?” you asked, ignoring the syrup dripping off your fork. Was this going to be the one hundred sixty-seventh time he kicked you out?  
  
Brian turned his head and looked at you, a gravity on his face you hadn’t seen in years, “Because I’m worried about you.” You felt the frustration rising inside you, but you pushed it down, years of being with Brian having taught you that that was the wrong way to approach him when he was like this. “Cody left seventeen messages on the machine here yesterday while we were at the funeral and the country club.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“And every one of them is fucked.”  
  
“Shit.” And then Brian asked you if you were happy in New York. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s an adventure, and I’ve made some really good friends,” you answered, unable to think about Harper and Amelia and everyone else at the moment, your mind still trying to figure out this Cody bullshit. “Look, I know why he’s doing this. He thinks I didn’t finish something I started.”  
  
Brian’s jaw was setting firm, “Hobbs is dead, Justin. I think that oughta finish it, not start it.”  
  
“You’re pissed at me,” you said, sitting your empty breakfast container on the nightstand.  
  
“No, I’m scared. Scared that something is going to happen to you. Again. And if that happened—"  
  
“That’s not gonna happen. I’m almost twenty-six years old, Brian.”  
  
“You think he cares how fucking old you are? He followed us yesterday, Justin. He knew everything we did, every place we went.”  
  
 _Perhaps if we hadn’t driven around town in a limo,_ you thought. “Well, I’m not afraid anymore. And not because Hobbs is dead, but because I’m _not_.”  
  
“Well, it sure isn’t for lack of trying,” Brian snarked and you slapped him on the back. “And see, you’re still violent.”  
  
……  
  
The curtains in Brian’s bedroom were still closed, allowing only glimpses of sunshine to come through now and then, and at that moment one of them cast a brightened streak down his long back. You followed it with your hand, “Don’t you think if I can survive Hobbs and a fucking bomb that I can take care of myself?”  
  
“Justin, I have more faith in you than I do in me or the rest of the world, but I can’t control the violent inclinations of a nut case.”  
  
You weren’t sure you’d ever heard Brian admit that he couldn’t control something. It freaked you out. “You’re really afraid.”  
  
“There is something working under all that blond hair.” He made a fist and knocked on your head. “Sometimes I think you have Obstinate Personality Disorder.”  
  
“Well, if I do, I caught it from you.”  
  
Brian smiled, “And you’re quite welcome. Don’t say I never gave you—"  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
You kissed him, your hand resting on the side of his face, and it seemed to surprise him for a minute before you felt him relax and enjoy it. He rolled onto his back and sat up, “Come here.” You crawled into his lap, and he pulled your hips to his, whispering in your ear, “Thought your ass was sore.”  
  
“My ass has been sore since the night I met you. I’m used to it.”  
  
“Then have at,” he told you, handing you the condom. You put it on for him, slicking his cock. He moaned as you took him, his hands tightening around your hips. “No longer a virgin, but just as tight.”  
  
“Don’t talk dirty to me; I’ll come.”  
  
You rode Brian slowly, and he pulled your face to his, kissing you as he bemoaned, “Little tease.”  
  
“Shh.”  
  
“Fuck, this is nice.” Your fingers stretched out along the back of his neck and he tilted his head back, resting on them as you fucked. You ran your lips down his neck, eventually lying against him, watching the sun striping the dark sheets as it tried to reach you. Brian’s nipple was hard beneath your fingers and you covered it with your hand, pressing against his chest. He kissed the top of your head and held you tighter, his left hand wandering down to your ass. “If I knew waffles would make you this amorous, I’d have taken a cooking class.”  
  
“It’s not the waffles, you dumb ass.”  
  
“It’s not?” he asked, and you could feel him smile.  
  
“It’s you.”  
  
“ _Oh._ ”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You pressed down hard on Brian when he came, smiling as his nails dug into your skin, as you came all over his chest. Brian reached to pull the sheet up around you as you sagged back against him, combing your hair with his fingers as you dozed off for a few minutes while he was still inside you. Your eyes fluttered open now and then, running your hand over his bicep as he held you.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You know, I’m so proud of you, Sunshine. Making it on your own in the big city.”  
  
“You are?”  
  
He lifted your right hand off his chest and wrapped your fingers into a fist and then opened them again, mimicking one of the exercises he used to help you with so many years ago. His thumb ran over the palm of your hand, “Takes a lot of guts to follow your dream.”  
  
“Brian, I love it there. I absolutely love it.” An excitement began to creep back into your body as you spoke of your life in New York, “Everything there seems so true, so gritty, so fiercely alive. It sounds stupid, but that’s a part of me.”  
  
“That’s not stupid.”  
  
“But then, when I see you, I don’t understand why I love it so much… because I love _you.”_  
  
“It’s okay to love more than one thing. From what I’ve read, love shouldn’t limit you; it should help you grow. Or at least that’s what lesbians say.”  
  
You laughed, “Well, then it must be true.”  
  
“Must be.”  
  
……  
  
The sun moved through the sky as you made love the rest of the day, and when it was finally in your eyes, you knew it was almost five o’clock, almost time to go. If you were going to go back tonight, it was time to figure something out, time to _manage your destination._  
  
Two hours later, you were standing at the Pittsburgh bus station with Brian with nothing on you but a new sketch pad you stopped to get and two mechanical pencils. He kissed you good-bye and you waved to him from the window as the bus pulled away. You opened your sketch pad when you couldn’t see him anymore, smiling at the young woman sitting beside you as you tried to get comfortable.  
  
The first thing you drew was Brian lying on his bed on his stomach, his fingers digging into the sheets as you fucked him a few hours ago.  
  
The second thing you drew made you famous.  
  
And when you set foot back in your studio the next day, your paintbrush hit the ground running.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Paul Simon’s _Hearts and Bones_ , the Atlantic Rhythm Section’s _So Into You_ , Lou Bega’s _I Got A Girl_ , Pablo Cruise’s _Love Will Find a Way_ , Paul Simon’s _Hearts and Bones_ and _Mother and Child Reunion_ , America’s _Only in Your Heart_ , Paul Simon’s _Slip Slidin’ Away_ and _Hearts and Bones_ , Right Said Fred’s _I’m Too Sexy_ , The Eagles’s _New Kid in Town_ , George Michael’s _Freedom ‘90_ and _I Want Your Sex_ , Sol II Sol’s _Back to Life_ , George Michael’s _Soul Free_ , Paul Simon’s _Mother and Child Reunion_ and _You Can Call Me Al_ , America’s _I Need You_ , Paul Simon’s _You Can Call Me Al_ , America’s _Daisy Jane_ , America’s _Tin Man_ , Paul Simon’s _Have a Good Time_ and _Hearts and Bones_.


	13. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 10-Amenities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 10/25/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 10-AMENITIES  
  
** **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_has my blood pressure got a hold on me,_  
or is this the way love's supposed to be?  
  
_early Friday morning, February 18, 2011_  
  
The off-white sheets on your bed at The Rockford felt cool against your skin as you and Justin slid underneath them for the first time since arriving there that night. Orange embers, the only thing left burning in the fireplace, were no longer keeping the two of you warm enough. He shivered a little under the covers as he lay on top of you, so you pulled the fluffy comforter up over his shoulders as you kissed him. He watched as your right arm appeared from under the covers, reaching for your cigarettes on the nightstand.  
  
He took your cigarette away from you when it returned, “You shouldn’t smoke in here, Brian. This is a non-smoking room.”  
  
You rolled your eyes at him and took it back, “After a fuck like that, I’ll smoke anywhere I want.” You offered it to him after you’d had your fill. You’d missed that, watching him smoke, watching him do anything with his mouth.  
  
“You’d smoke even if we hadn’t fucked, Brian.”  
  
“That’s completely irrelevant.”  
  
“You’re too old to be a rebel.”  
  
“Bite your tongue.” He gave it back to you and you put it out in some wacky-ass figurine on the nightstand that you thought was looking at you funny.  
  
His bottom was slick against your cock as he kissed his way up your neck, “I have to tell you something very important, Dr. Kinney.”  
  
“There’s no way I got you pregnant that fast, so don’t even try it.” He laughed. “I’m not a doctor, but I play one at The Rockford.” You wiggled your eyebrows at him, and he made that adorable smile that made you want to devour him.  
  
“I’m trying to be serious.”  
  
“I was being serious.” You put your arms around him again, smoothing your hands up and down his back. His fingers traced the edges of your ears. He kissed you, “I don’t care how old you think you are, you’re so amazing in bed and on the floor and on top of my easel and in the shower and in front of the fireplace and over the kitchen sink and on the kitchen table and in the loft and on top of the washer and dryer and anywhere else you ever want to fuck me—"  
  
_ARCHIVE. ARCHIVE. ARCHIVE._  
  
“Um, I haven’t fucked you in the laundry room.”  
  
“I know, but I want to.”  
  
“Want a little ‘spin cycle,’ huh?”  
  
He rolled his eyes at you, “You are, Brian. You haven’t changed a bit. Okay, well, that’s not true. You’re sort of better.”  
  
You looked at him like he was crazy, “Sort of better?”  
  
He shrugged against you, “You’re just more relaxed. It’s nice.”  
  
“ _This_ is nice,” you told him, your hand moving underneath his bottom as he lifted up a little for you, “Slippery.” He moaned when he felt your hand curve around his ass.  
  
You didn’t know what he meant about more relaxed, if he was referring to how easy the two of you fell together at a moment like this, your breathing, the familiar sounds of both of you moaning into a kiss, or the way he was pleading, “Touch me,” into your ear right when you were letting your fingers disappear inside him just so you could feel exactly where you’d just been.  
  
You had so much control when you didn’t want him to have any.  
  
“You’re wide open, Justin. So wet.” Your fingers pushed into him hard, relishing the puffs of air coming out of him that were steaming up your neck in short bursts as he kissed the side of your face. You lay with him like that for several minutes, enjoying the attention he was showering you with, listening to the little noises he makes when you’re touching him.  
  
“I want you to turn around,” you whispered in his ear. He smiled against your neck. “Want to eat this beautiful bottom.”  
  
“Mmm,” he said, kissing you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth. “Okay.” The covers slipped off the two of you as you watched him turn around, the moonlight coming through the window casting a gorgeous hue over his body. He looped his arms around your legs, burying his face between them, his hard cock dangling over your chest. You ran a single finger up and down the inside of each of his thighs as his ass hovered over you, pulling him down when you felt his legs tighten, squeezing the sides of your body. He kissed the inside of your legs, holding you tighter as he felt you breathing on his asshole. “ _Brian.”_ When your tongue flicked against his hole, his fingers dug into your thighs, his lips moving to your balls.  
  
Since the first night you made love to him, it’s been like this—lightning striking inside both of you—sometimes a violent, direct hit, sometimes flashes upon flashes of never-ending heat lightning that short-circuited everything in the entire world that didn’t have to do with fucking him. And you’d always had a hunger for him that rivaled any rational thought, but what you were experiencing now seemed to selfishly refuse to be classified. So you stopped trying and instead turned the matter over to your senses, giving your intellect the night off.  
  
You closed your eyes and concentrated on what you felt—the tight ridges of his hole, his breath between your legs, the wetness that seemed to pour over you as you slipped your tongue inside him. He tasted like a paradox, innocence and experience all rolled into one.  
  
He fucked your tongue as you licked him, sucking on your balls until he couldn’t anymore. He moaned on top of you, his voice reverberating over your whole torso, “You smell like me.”  
  
He smelled like an ecstatic urgency that was so slippery you could barely hold on to it.  
  
When your tongue enveloped his balls, his hips rose up, his cock almost dripping into your mouth as he lowered himself again, his head tucked against your stomach, watching as his cock slid into your mouth, “Oh _fuck,_ Brian.”  
  
You wrapped your hands around the inside of his thighs, controlling him as he fucked your face, slapping his ass when you couldn’t wait anymore, when you had to be inside him, “Get up and get on me,” you told him, “Just like this.”  
  
You fought to hold your hips still as you watched him line up, watched your dick disappear into his ass. His hips felt incredible under your fingers as he rode you like that, his body pressing against your bent knees. It wouldn’t have surprised you if you came just from watching yourself slide in and out of his perfect bottom or the sublime curve of his lower back. “Christ, Justin, Christ.” He sat down on you hard when you said his name, fucking you with fierce thrusts until you felt his body tremble beneath your hands. He came between your legs, and you took over for him, tilting your hips up to meet him as the same tremble started to move through you. When you came inside him, it should’ve had sound effects.  
  
It felt like a goddamn explosion.  
  
His body slumped against your knees, tired and sated, and he laid there until you nudged him, “Come here.”  
  
“I can’t. I’m dead.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Your cock slid out of him effortlessly, and he turned back around, collapsing on top of you, almost purring as you ran your hands over his hair, “Oh my god.”  
  
“I love you, Sunshine. Goddamn, that was amazing.”  
  
He slid off of your body and curled beside you, “I love you, too.”  
  
Your left hands wound together as you held him, kissing his neck and his shoulders, until his breathing slowed and you knew he was asleep.  
  
******************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
_they can’t take that away from me_  
  
If your parents had taken you to The Rockford on a family vacation when you were a child, you would’ve loved every minute of it. According to Brian’s synopsis on the plane ride to New Hampshire, The Rockford had been in business since 1953 and passed down through Nate’s family until it got to him. He’d had plenty of opportunities to sell it, Brian informed you, but Nate wouldn’t dream of it. For some reason, he considered this sprawling place with its steep, majestic staircases and doors with actual keyholes, home.  
  
From the outside, one would’ve thought that The Rockford was too stubborn to modernize, but its sensibilities, Brian assured you, were anything but antiquated. The décor remained predominantly wood and brass, not glass and steel like every other hotel you and Brian had ever stayed in. You figured the wood to be either Mahogany or a dark Maple, as the hotel resort had a very dark feel to it, one that even the myriads of incandescent chandeliers couldn’t dispel. The crystal light fixtures everywhere didn’t seem to brighten the place at all, in fact, they seemed to do little more than accentuate the shadows.  
  
The management at The Rockford basically hid the fact that they had an elevator, requiring most patrons to use the enormously wide staircase in the lobby. On first glance at this monstrosity, you thought it better suited to the ante-bellum south than a resort in New England. The hotel was old-fashioned and wouldn’t dream of having a guest carry his or her own luggage upstairs, so employees scurried in and out of hidden alcoves like well-trained elves depositing suitcases in their rightful rooms as if they were mysterious Christmas presents. Any trace of them was long gone before guests even made it to their rooms.  
  
There were good reasons for that, though. There were several good reasons for guests to linger downstairs: a five-star restaurant, a dark, smoky bar with piano music, parlors which you preferred to think of as ‘drawing rooms’ for obvious reasons, and an atmosphere that reminded those who paid a hefty sum to stay there, that their presence and their money were more than welcome.  
  
Of course, according to Brian, the two of you weren’t paying a cent.  
  
The walk to your room was a long one along a burgundy colored, overly busy carpet that covered the wide lobby and the hallways of The Rockford. The Victorian furniture that lined the hallways seemed to have been collected from random estate sales over the years, as if none of it was actually meant to be there on purpose. Somehow, the furniture seemed to know this and appeared propped on the floor, as if on display in a museum. The mirrors over the tables, which you took to be vanities because they reminded you of ones your grandmother had, were mostly cloudy with distorted glass. They appeared smudged and often scratched, as if no amount of Windex would’ve made a difference.  
  
To be honest, the whole place reminded you of a Scooby Doo mansion. You just couldn’t figure out where they stored the mystery van.  
  
Your life in New York was officially over, and you couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for the rumble of subway trains, the push of people on the sidewalks, the scents of various street vendors and, as you lay in your bed at this woodsy, over-decorated establishment, even the peculiar glamour of the city when the sun went down. There was so much possibility there; the pace of the city wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
It had been your opportunity of a lifetime. Your piece of the Big Apple would always belong to you—the lessons you’d learned, the people you met, the experiences that moved through you and onto a canvas.  
  
Nothing in your life had ever made you feel so free, so inspired, so compelled to illustrate the human condition and the world that that condition, good or bad, insisted on inhabiting. You’d gone to New York thinking that you needed an answer to a question, but when you got there, you had no idea what the question was. All you knew was that answers seemed to be everywhere, backstabbing your effort to make sense out of anything.  
  
But tonight, you felt like you’d been handed an answer, and this one didn’t fight you so hard. You looked at the ring on your finger, and then turned your head to look at Brian as he slept and eventually, at the clock.  
  
_2:43 a.m._  
  
It was snowing outside your window, a slow beautiful snow that seemed in no hurry to hit the ground. The flakes swept left to right as often as they fell straight down. You snuggled behind Brian, wrapping your arm around his waist, your eyes glancing over his shoulder. There were still people skiing at that hour of the morning. They weren’t very good, or they were drunk. You couldn’t really tell. Brian’s breathing changed, and you knew you’d woken him up. He pulled your hand around and pressed it against his stomach.  
  
“What’re you doing?” he asked you quietly.  
  
“Watching the snow.”  
  
Brian tilted his head so he could see out the window, “What the fuck are those idiots doing?”  
  
“They think they’re skiing.”  
  
“Apparently.” He sighed, laid his head back down, and yawned, “The only sport you should engage in while intoxicated is fucking.”  
  
“Well said, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Kinney-Taylor… or… Taylor-Kinney or whatever you are.”  
  
“God, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? Justin Taylor-Kinney?”  
  
“Um, you are pretentious.” You tickled him. He started laughing, “I’m sorry, I meant you are pretentious, _sweetheart.”_  
  
“Much better.”  
  
The snow became your focus again as a quiet settled over the room. After a minute or so, Brian let go of your hand, reaching back and pulling your hips against him.  
  
******************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_you take two bodies and you twirl them into one,_  
their hearts and their bones  
and they won't come undone  
  
A younger Justin would’ve asked you what you meant by that gesture.  
  
This one didn’t.  
  
This one was more than comfortable walking the tight rope of attraction that had always connected the two of you. There was nothing urgent about the way he kissed your back or your shoulders or let his hard cock move back and forth between your legs. He knew how to draw your desire out of you and what to do with it once it was right in front of him. And he was always more patient with you than you could ever bring yourself to be with him.  
  
His hand ran up and down the side of your body and eventually over your ass, his palm open and warm. You moaned in anticipation when you felt his slick fingers pass over your asshole, and when one of them pushed inside you, you rolled onto your stomach; your need for him rising inside you. You pressed your hips into his hand, no longer wanting to wait.  
  
But he was the one inside you, and he knew what he was doing.  
  
You reached for his other hand and folded your fingers together. You wondered as he stretched you, if you were trapped inside a moment or turning a page. You felt yourself opening up for him, his touch giving you an answer to your question. It would always be up to you to believe it.  
  
He was whispering to you quietly the entire time, and although you couldn’t recall anything that he said, the sound of his voice relaxed you and made you want him even more. Your hips rocked anxiously into the sheets in an effort to charm some kind of rhythm out of his hand.  
  
There was a patient persistence in the way that he touched you, in the sensation of his lips moving down your body, kissing the arch of your lower back, and a sense of an unopposed obligation almost flooded you as you thought about a lifetime of this, of _him_. In that dark, chintzy room, in the middle of that unplanned night, you felt his love for you. And it didn’t feel like a pair of Gucci loafers a size too small, it felt as exciting and satisfying as a sharp, expensive, brand new suit.  
  
In your mind, behind your closed eyes, the door to your woodland bedroom was suddenly wide open. And the man who over the years had pursued Justin, avoided him, and then tried in vain to resist him was turning his back on you and walking out the door.  
  
And there were no hard feelings.  
  
You wondered if he saw what you did, if he saw the blond boy full of a naïve, insatiable, nervous energy that fought to hang onto you, follow that man out the door and shut the door behind him. Their absence left the two of you finally and gratefully alone.  
  
“Brian, roll over. I want to see your face,” he whispered to you, and you did, welcoming his body on top of yours. “I love you,” he said to you, as the tight pain of him pushing through you burned through your entire body, “So much.” You felt your body wrap around him, saw your fingers running through his hair.  
  
And as he fucked you, you got the distinct feeling that something had shifted between the two of you, felt like something more than just your love making was becoming unprotected.  
  
It was as if for the first time you could really feel the pleasure he was feeling being inside you. The sound of him trying to control his breathing turned into a sweet, steady, moaning rhythm that made you want to tell him everything—everything you loved about him, everything he made you feel, everything that had changed about you because of him, even when he hadn’t been around to see it. But his song was so hypnotic, you didn’t dare interrupt it. You just listened to it and let it fill you.  
  
Until he stopped.  
  
“ _Justin, don’t stop,_ ” you heard yourself whisper to him.  
  
“I’m not gonna last.” He sounded so breathy, so desperate. “I need to come. Oh god—"  
  
“Come on. Little longer. Come on.” He stopped for a second, took a deep breath, and then you felt it. Felt him deeper inside you than he’d ever been, his arms and legs clamping you like a vice, his ragged breathing, his voice,  
  
“Fuck, Brian, _fuck_. Please come… _Please._ ”  
  
His forehead dug into the crook of your neck as his hips began a frenetic pace, his fingers skimming blindly down the side of your face. You wanted to break free, to move, to throw your head back, something, but he was squeezing you too tight; he had you pinned.  
  
Your orgasm bled out of your pores; it had nowhere else to go. And then you moaned, loudly, your head sinking into the sheets as you felt him come inside you.  
  
Inside you.  
  
He’d just come inside you.

 

Lyrics taken from Martha and The Vandellas’s _Heatwave,_ George and Ira Gershwin’s _They Can’t Take That Away From Me,_ and Paul Simon’s _Hearts and Bones_.


	14. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 11-Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 10/30/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 11- IMPRESSIONS  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _well, I was born in a small town  
and I can breathe in a small town_  
  
The Rockford was located in a small, unincorporated place in Coos County, New Hampshire, known as Dixville Notch. The first time Nate told you that the two of you were having lunch at Zeal. You choked on your food, “Please. You’re joking.”  
  
“I’m not. That’s where I grew up. Dixville Notch, New Hampshire. Eighteen hundred and twenty feet above sea level, on the forty-fifth parallel, halfway between the North Pole and the equator.”  
  
“I guess that’s the real definition of ‘Middle America’ then, huh?” Nate laughed at that, pointing his fork at you. Nate was one of those fork-pokers when he talked. Sometimes when you got tired of listening to him, you’d just watch him conduct a fork symphony in the air. That day the fork-estra was playing _Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy_ , but that was probably because there was a new, really effeminate waiter at Zeal that day. “So, are condoms the main export of Dixville?”  
  
Nate got a serious look on his face, one that you would only appreciate years later, “No. _Figurines.”_  
  
“Figurines?” you asked, horrified. His fork had stopped playing.  
  
Nate responded after thanking twinkle-toes for the bottle of wine, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“You’re the boss,” you said, your eyes following the wait-fairy as he waltzed to the next table.  
  
*********************  
 _there’s got to be a morning after…_  
  
That Friday morning, the sun filtered into your room at The Rockford reflecting off of the endless mounds of snow that the night before, in the dark, you actually thought were beautiful. But that morning, as the rays of sunlight penetrated your skull with the precision of a _Craftsman Variable Speed Electric Drill,_ you decided that all sunshine, even the one lying on top of you sound asleep and drooling, was, at that moment, insufferable.  
  
Of course, you could’ve remedied the situation by getting up and closing the curtains, but the blond brick sharing your bed made that rather impossible. Justin felt like a growth on top of you that smelled really good and just seemed to kiss you at random times.  
  
“ _Get off me,”_ you whispered, with as much affection in your voice as you possibly could. After all, sooner or later, he’d need to suck you off.  
  
“Get yourself off,” he mumbled back, turning his head away from the window.  
  
You tried again in your regular voice, “Justin, move. I have to piss.”  
  
He turned his head back around, his sleepy face forming into some sort of dopey smile, “You give _me_ a kiss.”  
  
You stared at him in his nocturnal state and decided that, because of the way his hair stuck up, he looked like a baby duck when he woke up in the morning. Well, the back of one. You pushed him off of you and stumbled to the bathroom, kicking the seat up. It bounced right back down because it had one of those squishy things on it that went _woosh_ when you sat on them, and in the case of this one, also distributed an air freshener called _Woodland Watering Hole_. The entire rest room smelled like pine trees fucking. You tried to ignore it, closing your eyes as you stood over the toilet, enjoying the warmth of hours of urine flowing out of you.  
……  
  
……  
  
“Good morning,” a voice announced from behind you.  
  
“Fuck, you scared me, Justin.”  
  
“I gotta pee, too.” Justin had to piss with his left hand since he insisted on wrapping his right arm around your waist, leaning his head on your chest. You had no choice in the close quarters but to put your arm around him.  
  
 _Every married couple pisses like this, right?_  
  
As your dual streams of relief echoed in the small bathroom, Justin began to wake up and noticed the ring on his finger, “Oh my god, Brian, we did it raw.”  
  
“Yes, Sunshine. There is a Santa Claus.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Urinating was apparently as much activity as Justin could stand at that moment, and after you flushed, he laid against you as you leaned against the mint-green wall of the bathroom. It was the first time you could remember the two of you making out while your neck was being stabbed by a window sill. When the kissing stopped, Justin laid his head against your chest, facing the mirror.  
  
“Oh my god, what is that?” he asked, meaning the freakish woodland creature candle holder staring back at him from the bathroom counter.  
  
“I believe that’s what they call a gnome,” you told him, as you suddenly noticed the plethora of them adorning the bathroom. The light switches were little gnome-reliefs drawn to look like they were hanging from the switch, and there was an eight and a half by eleven painting of one over the toilet, his blue pants draped over his little gnome footwear as he sat in an outhouse with the door wide open reading the _Monitor,_ the local daily newspaper.  
  
“Well, it’s creepy. I don’t want to look at it,” he said. You rolled your eyes, reaching over to turn it around, but then it faced the mirror and there were, as Justin immediately brought to your attention, “Two of them. Now it’s like there’s two of them.” You turned it again, making it face the wall. And unbeknownst to him as the two of you exited the bathroom, the gnome holding the soap in the shower gave Justin the evil eye.  
  
*********************  
 _the way you love me is frightening_  
  
The two of you flopped back into your bed, simultaneously averting your eyes from the state of your sheets. “So, um, what do you want to do today?” you asked, subtly pointing to your cock.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know. Fuck, eat, sleep?”  
  
“ _This_ is why I married you,” you told him, climbing on top of him.  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” you said kissing him. “It was a major factor in my selection process.”  
  
“Hmm, I was a little more selective. I married you for your money…and a lifetime supply of free drugs.”  
  
“You drive a hard bargain.”  
  
He reached between your legs, wrapping his warm hand around your cock, “ _This_ is a hard bargain.” You kissed him. “So, why don’t you drive it?”  
  
Within maybe a minute, the gnome on the mantle was getting an eyeful…and an earful.  
  
“ _Make me come,”_ Justin whispered, his pressing hands wandering against your ass, “ _Make me.”_  
  
You changed your angle just slightly, but didn’t speed up, “You wanna come?” you asked him, propped higher above his body.  
  
You were hitting the right spot, but, “Harder, please.” He spread his hands on your chest, “ _Brian, do it.”_ You pulled almost all the way out as he held his breath. You savored the moment, felt like you were hanging off of the side of a jagged rock with choppy water below you. He watched you, licking his lips.  
  
You slammed into him so hard the picture above the bed fell off the wall, slid behind the bed frame and broke.  
  
“Fuck! What was that?” he screamed, clutching you in fear. Clutching all of you. _All_ of you.  
  
“Oh _shit_ , fuck, goddamnit,” you moaned as you came inside him, “You squeezed the fuck out of my dick.”  
  
“I’m sorry. It scared me,” he apologized, still shaking. He rubbed your back, trying to soothe you.  
  
You fell on top of him, panting, “S’okay. It felt kinda good actually, in a ‘holy fuck, what the hell’ kinda way.” It was the second time since he’d come home that you’d fucked him and ejaculated in fear. You pushed that thought back to wherever the hell it came from.  
  
“I can’t believe we broke that picture,” he said, as the two of you tried to peer over the end of the bed to survey the damage.  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s why they call this unsafe sex.”  
  
********************  
 _the way you sip your tea_  
  
You joined Justin under the spray after you called downstairs to make a reservation for lunch. You’d convinced him that it was time to get in the shower when you told him, “Your ass no longer tastes like candied walnuts.”  
  
……  
  
“I’m so ready for lunch,” he said, moving the soap over your chest.  
  
“You’re always ready for lunch,” you replied, grabbing the shampoo before he saw the naked, soapy gnome on the label reading _Moments with Melody_ and washing his hair while he prattled on about what he was going to have. In your haste to leave Pittsburgh, you’d forgotten your designer shampoo. This stuff smelled like sandalwood, which was a nice break from pine.  
  
“—probably a salad and a sandwich. And a Bloody Mary. I could really go for a Bloody Mary.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Or maybe soup and a sandwich.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Or maybe soup, salad, and half a sandwich.”  
  
“Sounds good.”  
  
“What’re you gonna have?”  
  
“I tend to make that decision in the moment.”  
  
“You’ll have a salad. You always have a salad.”  
  
“Okay, I’ll have a salad,” you surrendered.  
  
“But you should try their soup. You really should. The lobster bisque. Let’s try the lobster bisque.”  
  
“You’re gonna get a mouthful of ‘Brian bisque’ in a minute if you don’t stop this inane conversation.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
********************  
 _that don’t impress me much_  
  
Walking down to brunch should’ve been a rather benign affair, but Justin kept tapping your arm and telling you that he could’ve _sworn_ he’d just seen Jude Law get in the secret elevator. “Brian, I swear. I did. It was him.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Do you think Nate would tell us if there were famous celebrities here?”  
  
You thought about it and shook your head and as you propelled him down the staircase, “Nope, Nate’s an upstanding guy. He wouldn’t have made it in this business if he couldn’t be discreet.”  
  
“There is _nothing_ discreet about this place, Brian. It reminds me of Debbie’s house, only on crack.”  
  
“Well, that may be, but we are in _Dixville_ , New Hampshire, so show a little respect.”  
  
Justin stopped on the never-ending stairs, “Is _that_ why you wanted to come here?”  
  
You pulled his arm to get him walking again and lied, “No, don’t be silly.”  
  
“Well, dicks or not, I keep expecting Uncle Fester to come around the corner any minute to change one of these eight hundred thousand light bulbs.”  
  
“That would never happen. That’s Lurch’s job. Everybody knows that.”  
  
Justin laughed and ended up a few steps ahead of you on the staircase, which was fine with you because it gave you an opportunity to marvel at the tight, smooth, black pants he had on and his long sleeve, white shirt that almost showed off his nipples. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him in that incredibly fuckable ensemble before, and you had to will away your public display of erection.  
  
"I’m gonna tell them to turn over our room while we’re having lunch, Justin, and get a newspaper,” you told him as the two of you walked into the lobby. “Fuck, I left my reading glasses in the room.”  
  
“No, you didn’t. I’ve got your glasses.”  
  
“Oh.” It surprised you.  
  
“I’ll go tell them. I’ll get your paper.”  
  
You’d read the _New York Times_ every day since a week after he left six years ago. “I don’t want to read it online. I want the actual paper.”  
  
“I know. You want to touch it.” You watched him walk to the front desk. Something about the precocious swing of his hips and the tone of his voice told you to stay close by.  
  
*********************  
 _and leave a spray of diamonds in its wake_  
  
Justin approached the front desk as you hung back, “Excuse me.”  
  
“Yes, sir?” _The manager, Dave? Dave. Right.  
  
Leader of The Chipmunks._  
  
“My name is Justin Taylor. I’m in room two nineteen. We’d like our room turned over while we’re at lunch.”  
  
“Absolutely, sir.”  
  
“Plus, we broke a painting that was over our bed.”  
  
“Oh, dear.”  
  
“It was an accident. We’ll pay for it.”  
  
“ _Who broke one of my paintings, Dave?”_ A woman’s voice from the back.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, sir. We’ll take care of it.” And then, the woman emerged, shoulder length dark hair, dark eyes, plump, pleasantly—sort of. She was a strikingly beautiful woman whose mass you hardly noticed because you couldn’t stop looking at her face.  
  
“Mr. Taylor, this is Sarah Melody, the artist,” Dave paused and glanced at Sarah, “Of that painting. _That you broke.”_  
  
“Oh, Justin Taylor.” They shook hands. You moved to the far end of the counter, picked up a travel brochure, and pretended to read it. “I apologize that we broke one of your paintings. It fell off the wall. I’m pretty sure the picture is fine. I think the frame is just broken.”  
  
“Young man, I frame my own pictures. The _frame_ is _part_ of the picture.”  
  
“Oh. Well, I’m so sorry. We’ll gladly pay for it,” Justin offered.  
  
“That painting costs fifteen hundred dollars.”  
  
 _Oh shit._  
  
Justin’s eyes fell out of his head, “Fifteen hundred dollars? Are you crazy?”  
  
 _Oh fuck._  
  
Sarah seemed to bristle at the implication, as if, perhaps, she really was crazy, “ _No_ , I’m not crazy. It’s an original. Not a reproduction.”  
  
“Well, that’s _ridiculous_ ,” Justin balked. You put your brochure down and moved a little closer to him. The guy skiing on the front wasn't _that_ hot. “I’ll have you know that I’m an artist. I work in New York City, and I know what kind of art sells for that kind of money and that picture is not worth fifteen hundred dollars.”  
  
“Young man, who are you to tell me what my art is worth? You don’t even know _who I am._ ”  
  
And then it dawned on _you_ who she was--Nate’s wife--your client’s _wife_ whom you’d heard about, but never met. You always thought of her as Sarah _Cooper_ , not Sarah Melody. An impending sense of doom began to permeate your body.  
  
You put on your best ‘to please the client’ smile as you interrupted their cat fight, putting your arm around Justin’s shoulder, “Sarah, we’re very sorry about this. If it’s fifteen hundred, that’s—"  
  
“No, Brian.” He pushed your arm off of him. “I don’t care if you’re the Thomas Kincade of the ski-lodge art world, you’re gouging us. We didn’t mean to break your painting. If it was worth that much, you should’ve secured it to the wall. I’m sure you’ve insured it. Here’s a hundred bucks for the deductible.” He threw two fifties on the counter in front of her and turned to the manager, “May I have today’s _New York Times_ , please?”  
  
“Certainly. Here you go, sir.”  
  
Justin took the paper being offered to him, “Thank you. Our room will be ready after lunch?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Thank you.” He turned to you, handing you your paper with a _thwap_ against your stomach, “Here’s your paper, Brian.” Sarah stared at the two fifties on the counter and then at him as he turned on his heels and walked toward the dining room.  
  
You looked at her, cleared your throat a little, pointed in Justin’s direction and smiled, “Um, he’s got my glasses. Have a nice day.”  
  
Sarah glanced down at the guest register which was an actual register, _on paper, in a book_ , mind you, and then looked back up at you and smiled as if the whole exchange with Justin hadn’t just happened, “Oh, I will, Mr. Kinney. You do the same.” And then she turned to Dave as if you weren’t even there, “David, when you go to lunch, be sure to put the register in the fire-proof file cabinet in case the place burns down while you’re gone.”  
  
Dave responded as if she told him that every single day, “I will, ma’am. Don’t worry.” You and Dave watched Sarah as she disappeared into the back again.  
  
You waited until she was well out of earshot before you asked, “Expecting the place to burn down?”  
  
“No, sir, but, frankly, nothing that happens here is a surprise to me.” The look in his eye gave you the creeps. He turned and looked in the direction that Sarah had gone, “She doesn’t exactly _walk,_ she seems to _float_ , wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
It was true. She did.  
  
********************  
 _hey, now, you’re an all star_  
  
It took about ten minutes for the dining room to prepare the table you wanted by the window, so the two of you sat in the bar. Justin downed a Bloody Mary, with a straw, no less, and you sucked gratefully on a cigarette and flipped through your paper while both of you ignored the awkward silence hanging between you. Justin's reaction to the fact that Sarah Melody was really Sarah Cooper was really Sarah _Rockford_ seemed to be sinking in. And then he handed you your glasses out of nowhere. There were no pockets in the pants or shirt he was wearing; you had no idea where he stashed them or the cash he’d thrown on the front desk, but were a bit afraid of the answer. He took the crossword puzzle from you and asked, “Hey, what’s a six-letter word for ‘idiot?’”  
  
“Justin?”  
  
……  
  
“I didn’t know she was Nate’s wife, Brian. I’m sorry, _okay?”_  
  
The host came and escorted the two of you to your table. Lunch was kind of quiet at first. The waiter came. You ordered. You read your paper. He kicked his shoe off and put his socked foot on your thigh.  
  
“What’re you doing?” He had on some really nice socks, you thought, as you rubbed the top of his foot. They were black and snug and made his feet look really small and sexy. It dawned on you as you fondled it that people probably thought you were jerking off under the table. “These are really soft socks.”  
  
“My mom gave them to me. They’re some sort of micro-fiber or something. Give me a section of the paper.” He rubbed his toe against your cock.  
  
“No. You won’t read it; you’ll just chat at me while you look at it.”  
  
“Yes, I will read it. I can be quiet.”  
  
You handed him the Art section and started counting how many seconds until he started talking to you again. He didn’t. He mostly just mumbled to himself: “Interesting…I think I’ve been there before… Hmm, I think I know him…Oh my god that is so not true. Unbelievable.”  
  
The waiter brought champagne to your table, compliments of the hotel, “I’m told it’s your honeymoon.”  
  
“It is,” Justin smiled as he wiggled his toes in your lap again. He looked so happy to talk to someone who wouldn’t tell him to shut up.  
  
“And that I should apologize for Sarah,” the waiter continued. “ _She’s menopausal._ ” He popped the cork and poured. “Congratulations.”  
  
“Thank you very much,” Justin told him, a very happy smile spreading over his face.  
  
“Justin, please wait until you have food in your stomach before you drink that,” you told him, pushing the basket of bread toward him.  
  
“Hell, no.” He raised his glass. “A toast: to free honeymoons and menopausal artists.”  
  
“And bread,” you added.  
  
“And bread.”  
  
“Here, here,” your glasses clinked together. He drank his whole glass and refilled.  
  
He pressed his foot into your crotch and wiggled his eyebrows, “Unzip your pants, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
“Hell, no, Mr. Tay—"  
  
“Oh come on, you know these tight socks are making you crazy,” he crooned, batting his eyelashes at you. You ignored him; there was no way you were prepared to admit that to him in this dining room. He moved on to another subject before you’d even finished your thought, “Hey, if I was a famous person, and I was gonna stay here, I’d stay here under an assumed name.”  
  
“Congratulations.”  
  
“So, maybe, _Jude Law_ is staying here under an assumed name.”  
  
“I doubt it.”  
  
“I am sort of famous, actually. I should think of an assumed name in case I need one,” he pondered, picking his bread apart instead of eating it.  
  
“How about ‘Violent Femme?’” you proposed.  
  
“Nope, won’t work. They’re already famous, duh,” he chastised you, clearly not seeing the resemblance.  
  
“’Bionic Twat?’”  
  
“’Wait, how about Bionic _Bottom._ ’”  
  
“No, twat.”  
  
“Bottom.”  
  
“Twat.”  
  
“ _Bottom._ ”  
  
“Bottom?”  
  
“Twat…Shit! You tricked me.”  
  
“’Bionic Twat’ it is, then. Excellent choice.”  
  
He was about to throw a piece of bread at you when your salads arrived, “Can I get you gentlemen anything else right now?”  
  
“A lot more bread,” you told him, pushing the empty basket to the edge of your table. Justin reactivated his roaming foot and asked for more champagne. You rolled your eyes at him and went back to reading your paper.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
A few minutes later you were interrupted again by Justin’s whispered voice, “Brian Kinney, unzip your pants.”  
  
You folded the corner of your paper down and stared at him over your glasses, “Bionic Twat, eat some bread.” He did, while he was laughing, and almost choked on it. “Jesus, Justin. Take it easy.”  
  
You were ready to give him the Heimlich, but he sucked down his champagne to wash it down and kept right on laughing. “Ohmygod, are you _pisssssed_ at me?”  
  
“No.” You rolled your lips in to keep from laughing.  
  
“Because I was a _cunt_ to that bitch?” The fact that he thought he was whispering certain parts of his sentences was really cracking you up.  
  
You leaned across the table, “No, sweetheart, I’m not pissed at you. You’re always a cunt when it comes to art.”  
  
He leaned forward and got right in your face, too, smiling, like it was the first time he’d seen you all day, “Am I _really_?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But that wasn’t art, Brian. That was _shit. Fifteen-hundred-dollar-shit._ ”  
  
“Exactly. That’s my point.”  
  
……  
  
His eyes got really big, “Oh my god, _you’re right._ I’m a total cunt.” You kissed him, mostly to try to shut him up. “Mmm, you just kissed a cunt.”  
  
“Eat your sandwich.”  
  
“I wanna get you off with my toes.”  
  
“No. Eat your sandwich,” you repeated.  
  
“Old man.”  
  
“Slut nut.”  
  
“Ooh, _that’s_ gonna be my assumed-"  
  
“Gentlemen, how’s lunch?”  
  
“It’s delicious,” Justin told him and then asked for another bowl of soup, the other ‘ham of his half sandwich,’ and more champagne. You shook your head when he was asking for more champagne. The waiter looked at you, trying not laugh.  
  
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”  
  
You put your hand firmly on Justin’s foot and squeezed, “An annulment.”  
  
********************  
 _when I'm out walking I strut my stuff,  
yeah, I'm so strung out_  
  
Getting Justin back up the never-ending staircase at The Rockford and back to your room proved more challenging than you’d anticipated. It was hard enough to keep him from tipping over the railing when he saw something below that caught his fancy. “Ohmygod, he’s _hot_ ,” he told you, pointing to someone walking by with a mop bucket, “You know, in a custodial sort of way.”  
  
“I’m sure he appreciated that,” you told him, gluing your hand to the small of his back so you could keep him upright.  
  
As you walked down the hallway to your room, Justin stopped every few feet to sit on one of the antique chairs and benches lining the hallway. “Ohmygod, this one is too squishy….this one is too small….I mean, it’s very, very pretty and stylish, and I'm sure it's worth a small fortune, but it's just not functional. And this one—"  
  
“Come on, Goldilocks. That’s enough.”  
  
An older couple passed you in the hallway, you smiled at them and Justin attempted to say hello, but it came out, “H- _ahhh_ Ohmygod, excuse me. I burped.”  
  
“Gee, they needed that clarification,” you told him, unlocking the door to your room and holding it open for him. Your bed had been made, an extra set of sheets were left on the embroidered bench at the end of the bed, and there were two little chocolate candies on your pillow shaped liked forest critters.  
  
“Oh, yum, Chocolate Chipmunks,” Justin said, popping both of them into his mouth at the same time. “Mmm, they’re minty.”  
  
“It's conceivable that you just ate Theodore.”  
  
*********************  
 _she said don't give me no lines  
and keep your hands to yourself_  
  
You adjourned to the pine-scented wonderland that was your bathroom to take a much needed piss, and when you returned, Justin was standing up on the bed trying to pull the new painting they’d hung in your room off the wall. He managed to get if off rather easily, falling back on the bed with it in his lap.  
  
“Look at this piece of crap, Brian,” he laughed as you broke his fall, “And it’s still not bolted to the wall!”  
  
“Jesus, Justin, you’re lucky you didn’t break that over your head.”  
  
He held it up for you, “Look at the back. Is there a big price tag from _Wal-Mart_ or something? Forty-nine ninety-five?” He fell back on the bed dissolving into a fit of laughter. You tried to take it from him and he grabbed it back, “No wait, wait. I have to see the title.” He handed it to you, covering his eyes with both hands, “No, just let me guess. _The Chalet_ , right?  
  
Am I right?”  
  
You looked at the title on the gold nameplate on the front of the painting, “ _Winter Chalet_. So close, but yet so far.”  
  
He laid back, throwing his arms back on the bed, “I’m a fucking genius. A total, fucking genius. You didn’t know you married a genius, did you?”  
  
“I had a hunch.” You opened the door to your room and sat the painting outside in the hall.  
  
“What’re you doing?”  
  
“Removing the incentive for your bad behavior.”  
  
“Somebody might steal it. It’s _sooooooo_ valuable. I’ll bet she made all of these dumb-ass gnome figures on the mantel, too.” You turned around and he was off the bed, picking them up one by one and looking at the bottom of them. “Ha! ‘Sarah Melody, 1972.’ I knew it. These are so fucking tacky.” He acted like he was going to drop one. You grabbed it out of his hand.  
  
“All right. That’s enough.” You picked up all four of them and sat them outside the door, too.  
  
“Whoops. You’re no fun.”  
  
“You’re an accident trying to find a place to happen.” You picked up the phone and called the front desk. “Hi. This is Brian Kinney in two nineteen. You might want to come and pick up the artwork outside our door. We won’t be needing it……….Yes, the artwork……….Yes, thank you.” When you put the phone down and turned around, Justin was standing up on the bed again. If he jumped, his head was going to go through the ceiling.  
  
“Now the room looks weird. It’s too empty.”  
  
“Only because you’re standing on the bed. I assure you, if you come down here, everything looks quite normal.”  
  
“Come and get me.” You grabbed the waistband of his black pants and yanked him over to the edge of the bed. “Whoa!” he yelled, his knees bouncing when they hit the mattress.  
  
“What am I going to do with you?”  
  
“Fuck me with my socks on?”  
  
Making love to him while he was on his back was nothing new, but doing it while his very soft, very expensive socks rubbed your ass, well, that was _delicious._  
  
********************  
 _you and me ain’t no movie stars,  
what we are, is what we are_  
  
You found your glasses all by yourself after you fucked him, grabbed your laptop, and climbed back into bed next to him.  
  
“Brian, god, I’m so drunk.” The soft cotton of his white shirt felt nice against your thigh. You ran your fingers through his hair as you brought up your email. He snuggled down, his face against your leg.  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“I love when you fuck me like that.”  
  
“Happy to help.”  
  
“I love doing it raw.”  
  
“Certainly kicks it up a notch.” His hand looped over your thigh.  
  
“I love when you pull my hair.”  
  
“You told me to.”  
  
“I love when you do what I tell you to do.”  
  
“Justin?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Is there anything you don’t love?”  
  
……  
  
“Nope. I love everything. I love you. I love champagne. I love this bed. I love—"  
  
“I love you, too, Justin. Go to sleep.”  
  
“I’m not sleepy. I’m just drunk.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I wanna fuck you.”  
  
He kissed the side of your leg for a few seconds in an attempt at clumsy seduction and started snoring, his drunk snore. It’s like no other. You booted your laptop but answering email and chatting with Cynthia didn’t take very long, so you checked in with Gabe at Zeal and Ruben at Babylon to make sure that things had gone well for them this week, that they were ready for a profitable weekend. Everyone in your kingdom was doing their job, so you shut down your laptop and turned your attention back to Justin.  
  
He felt you lie down next to him and laid his head against your shoulder as you pulled the comforter up over both of you, stealing a glance under the covers at the rise and fall of the gentle curves of his body, his tight, white long-sleeve shirt clinging to him, stopping above his beautiful ass. You stared at him, so pure on these white sheets, and thought about when you first met him, how even after all this time, he still seemed that pure to you. How you’ve never thought of yourself that way, not even for a minute.  
  
You wondered why that was because there plenty of things about him that you knew weren’t pure at all—things he’d done with you and to you, plenty of things he’d been involved in over the years that’d tainted him just like anyone else, the marks of violence and the evidence of pain, the ones you could see and the ones you couldn’t—but you rarely saw any of these things when you looked at him. It was like they just didn’t exist, and it bothered you that you were either too blind or too unwilling to see what should’ve been, what was, right in front of you.  
  
You supposed it was because you loved him.  
  
But he loved you, too, and he didn’t see you that way. He never had.  
  
Why?  
  
You stared at the blank wall over your bed, the wallpaper faded where the broken painting had been. It had been an ugly painting, and you hadn’t even noticed it until it fell off the wall and broke, but Justin had. He’d noticed it, judged it, and valued it, all without saying a word. And when it broke, he wasn’t the least bit afraid to call it what it was:  
  
 _”Look at this piece of crap, Brian.”_  
  
You held him, watching the afternoon sun come through the window and fall right on the wall where the painting had been, brightening and fading everything all at the same time, the sunshine letting you see everything and yet, at the same time, making everything fade away as you closed your eyes...  
  
********************  
 _the way you haunt my dreams_  
  
 _Ibiza. Fucking Ibiza.  
  
You were so tired of being here. So tired of sitting on this beach, right on the fucking sand, in your suit, with your knees bent—a place to rest your chin. You glanced at your hands wrapped around your shins. You’d lost your ring?  
  
But you were still just watching him. And he was still completely naked. And there was a game going on today. Baseball?  
  
Softball.  
  
And your father was the coach. And the pitcher.  
  
“Go long, Sonny Boy,” he yelled to Justin as his right arm drew back throw the ball. Justin grinned, excited, and took off running down the beach, sand flying everywhere. He’d glance back at your father every few steps, his hands outstretched to catch the ball that had yet to be thrown.  
  
He seemed to run like that for miles, but you knew that wasn’t true because you could still see him. He never got any smaller.  
  
And then, as the ball was thrown, you saw him.  
  
Chris.  
  
At bat.  
  
The bat in motion.  
  
The smile on Justin’s face.  
  
“Justin!”  
  
You felt yourself get up, start to run—  
  
and run—  
  
and run.  
  
Your leg muscles seizing as you got to the water’s edge and fell forward, your hands pressing into your knees. He wasn’t there.  
  
He was gone.  
  
……  
  
And then you saw them, Ethan, Debbie, Daphne, Jennifer, and Craig, back where you’d just been sitting, standing around his sandy, makeshift grave.  
  
Justin’s sandy, makeshift grave; a white, wooden cross sticking out of the mound of sand.  
  
And Cody. Giving the eulogy, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to join this man—"  
  
It wasn’t a funeral.  
  
It was a wedding.  
  
Your wedding.  
  
And then your father was there, standing next to you in the water in his tuxedo. You knew he was dead when he spoke to you, “Son, you’re bleeding.”  
  
He must be wrong, but he was right. It was pouring out of you. You looked down at the foamy, rose-colored water pooling over your favorite black shoes and that’s when you heard it.  
  
The explosion.  
  
Your father gripped you, holding you firm where you stood in the bloody water watching sand and flesh blanket the beach. The burning scent of sorrow stung your eyes as your head rested on your his shoulder. You sobbed and shook and he held you,  
  
“It’s okay, Sonny Boy. It’s okay. I’m here.”_  
  
********************  
 _we share a bed, some popcorn and T.V._  
  
You woke up and sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door and vomiting in the toilet, breathing in the pine-sol. Your head rested on the back of your hands as you laid there on the mint green porcelain, your eyes drying as the cool air swirled around your nude body. And then you heard him on the other side of the bathroom door,  
  
“ _Ohmygod, Brian. Are you okay? What’s wrong?...Brian, what’s wrong?”_  
  
“It’s okay, Justin. I’m just sick.”  
  
“ _From lunch? Lunch made you sick?”_  
  
You heard the doorknob turn, “No, don’t come in here. Go back to bed. It’s just something I ate.”  
  
“ _But I’m worried.”_  
  
“It’s okay. Just go back to bed.”  
  
When you came out a few minutes later, Justin was curled up in bed watching a black and white episode of _Bewitched._ He offered you the space on the bed in front of him, commenting, “Come on, lay down. This is the one with the sexy Darrin.”  
  
You snorted as you laid down beside him, “There’s no such thing as a ‘sexy Darrin.’”  
  
“There is when I’m drunk,” he said, wrapping his arm around you.  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from John Cougar Mellencamp’s _Small Town,_ Maureen McGovern’s _The Morning After_ from the soundtrack of _The Poseidon Adventure,_ Amii Stewart’s _Knock on Wood,_ George and Ira Gershwin’s _They Can’t Take Away From Me,_ Shania Twain’s _That Don’t Impress Me Much,_ Paul Simon’s _St. Judy’s Comet,_ Smashmouth’s _All Star,_ The Violent Femmes’s _Blister in the Sun,_ Georgia Satellites' _Keep Your Hands to Yourself,_ Alice Cooper’s _You and Me,_ George and Ira Gershwin’s _They Can’t Take Away From Me_ again, and Alice Cooper’s _You and Me_ again.  
  
And my apologies to the town and people of Dixville Notch, New Hampshire.


	15. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 12-Context

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 11/6/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 12- CONTEXT  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _it comes down to reality_  
  
When you opened your eyes in the darkened room, it took you a minute to remember where you were…and why you had a headache. The absence of anything on the mantel reminded you that you shouldn’t take Brian’s left arm flung over your chest for granted. Indeed, you were probably fortunate not to be observing his sleeping form from _outside_ The Rockford, where, if memory served, you probably belonged. And trying to figure out what sexy Darrin from Bewitched had to do with any of this was only making your headache worse. Or maybe you were still drunk; perhaps that explained the visions of gnome-like creatures doing an infuriated River Dance in your head.  
  
Either way, lying underneath the weight of Brian’s arm and feeling his steady breath on your neck was sort of making everything better. Turning your head to the right, you noticed a figurine that Brian had forgotten as he’d sanitized your room, the one he’d been using as an ashtray. The gnome glared at you, as if holding you personally responsible for forcing him to dance alone. You tried not to stare at him, eventually just flipping him off. And then you turned your head slowly to the left to glance at Brian’s face; he didn’t look pissed, he looked peaceful and beautiful, and as your eyes swept down his body, much, much sexier than any Darrin. You closed your eyes again. That was the image you wanted behind them.  
  
You were a married man. A married man. The concept seemed to be just sinking in. After years in New York trying to discover yourself, you’d come home and in less than two weeks, gotten hitched. And although your very recent past was with Brian and all that had happened since you’d returned, your mind was never far away from the city.  
  
********************  
 _you act like you were just born tonight  
face down in a memory but feeling all right_  
  
As you rode the bus back to New York that Saturday in November 2008, you made a decision not to over-explain your absence to Daniel or Harper or anyone. Simply put, you were tired of being defined by tragedy. Daniel’s only question for you when you arrived back at your studio Sunday morning, almost tingling with inspiration, was, “That man, he’s your lover?”  
  
Had Daniel not wanted to be that man, you might’ve taken that opportunity to further define yourself for him, but, as it was, you knew that any sympathy he felt for you would feel like something more to him.  
  
So instead you stood on the stairs, anxious to have the studio all to your to yourself for the entire day, and responded, “Yeah, he is.”  
  
Daniel stepped backwards, as if backing into the kitchen, both hands on his coffee cup and nodded, “Well, he’s a lucky man.”  
  
 _So am I,_ you thought as you walked to the second floor.  
  
Every blank canvas in your studio seemed to perk up when you walked into the room, closing the door behind you.  
  
********************  
 _sail on silver girl,  
sail on by_  
  
Daniel wasn’t around for very much longer that day, his departure announced by a quiet knock on your door. When you opened it, he was in tears. “My mother, my mother has died. I have to go. I’ll be gone for probably at least a week—"  
  
“Daniel, I’m so sorry. Oh god,” you said as you hugged him. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Silver Spring, Maryland. That’s where she is, where she was, the home she lived in.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Stay here, look after the place. I don’t have time to stop the mail, the paper, the—"  
  
“Sure. Don't worry about it. Just go.”  
  
As you walked downstairs with him, Jonathon was in the foyer. He was crying, too. He put his arm around Daniel’s shoulders and led him to the waiting cab. You walked behind them with Daniel’s suitcase. Your wave to them as they drove away was un-returned.  
  
You would find out after Daniel returned that both his mother and Jonathon’s were in that home together, that the death of Emma Cartwright was destroying Sandra Massey. Losing her best friend was more than the eighty-six year old woman could take. Jonathon’s tears that day were foreshadowing. Sandra would die four months later after refusing to come live with Jonathon; she chose to keep her memories company.  
  
********************  
 _and the course of a lifetime runs  
over and over again_  
  
Harper had been scarce now that Amelia was a toddler and unable to sleep quietly through her mother’s creative notions. You missed having her there, her and Amelia; the baby’s presence had meant that the two of you had to work in silence. You began to feel calm and centered when Harper would arrive with the baby carrier. It always meant an afternoon of peace, quiet, and inspiration. The dark tones germane to most of Harper’s work began to morph into pastels, into shades of innocence tinted with pink.  
  
Harper would often take a break in the afternoon just to walk down the street, to do something that didn’t have anything to do with being a mother for a few minutes, and you were left alone with Amelia. The first time she woke up while in your care, she smiled at you, giggled, and burped. You rocked her carrier, and she fell back to sleep. The second time she woke up, she shit everywhere. When Harper returned, you feigned ignorance.  
  
“Is Uncle Eggo allergic to dirty diapers?” Harper asked to Amelia in her baby voice as she changed her on the futon.  
  
Amelia waved her little hand in the air and said, “Ah…ah!” as if confirming her mother’s suspicions.  
  
So when Daniel left to bury his mother, you were truly alone, alone with your thoughts of Brian, of Chris, of Meredith and her son. Brian had more or less deposited you in bed after your post-funeral shower that day. Your brush, thick with paint, ran over the canvas with the ease and predictability of Brian’s hands over your body. He’d made love to you so slowly that day, as if he was patiently waiting for you to join him wherever he was. The safety you felt in his arms almost made you feel guilty. Brian had a way of fucking you so _deliberately_ when words seem to fail him.  
  
And not that you didn’t often return the favor, it was just that fucking wasn’t art to you. It was filling a need, expressing affection, a very, very nice way of making hours and hours seem like seconds.  
  
Art was something that fought you, that struggled to be understood on its own terms, to define itself. There was no struggle when you and Brian made love; the two of you anticipated and met each other’s every need. You moved together flawlessly. Fucking Brian was like a dance; the music might change, but nothing else ever did.  
  
You were sitting on the front steps of Daniel’s brownstone finishing a cigarette, contemplating the unpredictability of life, when you saw him walking toward you. Alan.  
  
“What’s up? Full moon’s not ‘til the twenty-seventh.” You couldn’t be a friend of Harper’s and just not naturally come to know these things.  
  
“Thought I’d mix it up a bit,” Alan joked with you, joining you on the steps. “Josie here?”  
  
You offered him a cigarette and he took it, “No. I think she’s on an unofficial leave of absence now that Amelia’s crawling everywhere.”  
  
“Dr. Dan?”  
  
You laughed, “No,” and then you spoke before thinking, “His mother died yesterday.” You regretted the words as soon as you’d said them. Harper always made a point of protecting Alan from things, even memories.  
  
A cloud came over Alan’s face, “Oh god. Poor guy.” He seemed genuinely concerned for Daniel; the sorrow you saw on his face was only for him. “I really needed her,” he said, as if he was talking to the sky.  
  
“You can come in and take a shower. It’s okay.”  
  
Alan smiled and laughed a little, “I needed her for more than that,” but he followed you inside anyway, taking you up on your offer. You made soup and sandwiches for the two of you while he showered and changed. He always looked like a completely different guy once he’d bathed. And he was much easier to talk to when he didn’t smell.  
  
********************  
 _two disappointed believers  
two people playing the game_  
  
It always struck you that for someone who was homeless and lived how he did, Alan seemed to have manners and for the most part, was a pretty polite guy. The only time you’d ever seen him behave in a way that concerned you was when he was with Harper. He came downstairs with wet hair and thanked you for lunch as he sat down at the table across from you.  
  
“It’s no problem. And I can make more, if you’re still hungry.”  
  
Alan remarked that peanut butter and jelly was his favorite, and then, “I like that picture you’re painting. It’s really interesting.” It wasn’t uncommon for Alan to venture into the studio when he came over, almost like he was collecting pieces of his imagination as he looked over Harper’s work. But Harper didn’t have anything in progress in the studio that day, so he must’ve looked at yours.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Is it you? In the cemetery?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
It was you. Probably the most realistic likeness you’d ever painted, albeit more of you as a young boy than the man you now were. You weren’t usually your own subject. Up until that day, no one had seen the painting you’d been working on; you’d started locking your studio, not that Daniel would’ve ever intruded. That wasn’t his style. You hadn’t wanted anyone to see it because you’d have to explain it. And explaining it made it feel too real. But Alan didn’t know your past and didn’t want anything from you beyond a shower and a meal, so you didn’t avoid the subject when he kept bringing it up, “The headstone is so much bigger than you. Sort of like a reverse-perspective.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And the long shadow cast over you, the perspective’s fucked up on that, too. It’s like you don’t know whose point of view that painting is supposed to be. Makes you stare at it a lot trying to figure it out—“  
  
“Alan, can I ask you something?” you said, practically interrupting him.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Are you really crazy? I mean, mentally ill; you know what I mean.”  
  
“Are _you_?”  
  
The question struck you as odd, but somehow justified. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“I don’t think I am either. I’m just supposed to be.”  
  
“Supposed to be?” you asked, bringing the bread, peanut butter and jelly back to the table to make more sandwiches. Something inside told you that if you kept feeding him, he’d keep talking. There was more Debbie in you than you liked to admit.  
  
Alan gave you a funny look, as if he was sizing you up, deciding if he could trust you, “From what I can remember, I had a rough time of it when my mother killed herself.”  
  
“Well, that’s understandable. Anybody would, especially a little kid.”  
  
Alan stacked two more sandwiches on his plate and cut them both at the same time, “I became what they like to call a ‘problem child.’” The way he said it, made you laugh. Alan laughed, too. “My grades fell, my teachers were worried about me. The school system started to battle with my Dad to have me evaluated.”  
  
“Your teachers knew about your mother?”  
  
“And that I found her. Once that information gets into your file in the school system, everybody knows.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“The funny thing is that my father would’ve jerked me at out of school and left me at home if it was legal, but he couldn’t. And he refused to let the school evaluate me, so he took me to my mother’s doctor instead. It was his way of rebelling or something.”  
  
“And your mother’s doctor--?”  
  
“Said I was crazy. Everyone in that hospital hated my father and felt like he was responsible for her death because he made her leave the hospital when she wasn’t well. I told the doctor that my father didn’t want me evaluated, and somehow a convenient diagnosis got in my records.”  
  
“Alan, that is seriously fucked up.”  
  
“There was a method to their madness, if not to mine. I started getting special services. Smaller classes, tutors, therapy, meds, you name it. As far as I was concerned, my life got a lot better, except that it made Josie’s maternal instincts come roaring out of her before she was even thirteen. Once I was ‘sick,’ it was like she made it her personal mission to take care of me, and she’s only a year older than me, but that didn’t stop her. She was hell bent on being a mother I could count on.”  
  
“And was she?”  
  
“She did what she could, tried to protect me from my Dad, who became angrier and angrier at me every time he thought about me being ‘sick’ like my mother. I dropped out of school in my junior year and disappeared. The rest, I guess, is history.”  
  
“So you’re not crazy, then? Do you want some more milk?” Never had you thought those two questions would find themselves in the same utterance.  
  
“Sure. I guess I’m not. I’m just extremely reluctant to live up to other people’s expectations. Every adult I ever met was more interested in diagnosing me than getting to know me.”  
  
“But Harper believes that you’re really sick. She says your behavior is erratic, that you can’t distinguish between fantasy and reality.”  
  
“More fun that way. Reality sucks.”  
  
“It’s fun to lead her on?”  
  
“No, it’s _kind_ to let her be who she wants to be. Our lives were shit when we were little, and the only thing that ever seemed to make Josie happy was taking care of me. It’s who she is, who she wants to be.”  
  
“Her denial runs that deep?”  
  
“Doesn’t everybody’s, Eggo?”  
  
********************  
 _the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls_  
  
“You know, this is really weird for me,” you told Alan after the two of you had gone upstairs. He was laying on the futon, no doubt getting ready to fall asleep like he always did and watching you paint. You never minded painting in front of Alan; he seemed to blend in like furniture.  
  
“What’s really weird?”  
  
“It’s just that you’ve always been such a tragic figure to me; it’s hard for me to see you any other way.”  
  
“Yeah, well that’s true for everybody. We all see everybody through our own filter.”  
  
“I guess you’re right,” you said to him as he got up and started looking through Harper’s desk. “Are you looking for something?”  
  
“Did Josie keep any of Amelia’s baby clothes here? The real little ones?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I just need a couple things.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Alan seemed to get agitated as you questioned him, finally sitting on the chair in front of Harper’s desk, “There’s a girl, a woman I know, who just had a baby, and she needs stuff. She doesn’t have anything.”  
  
You opened the bottom drawer of Harper’s desk where she kept extra clothes for Amelia, “There’s stuff in here. Don’t you think you should ask her first?”  
  
“She won’t mind,” Alan said, working his way through the drawer of pink, white, and lavender things until he found something that he thought would work. He took two pairs of pajamas and a pair of little white socks with lace on them.  
  
“Don’t take those. Those are Amelia’s favorite socks.” The idea that an infant had a favorite pair of socks was preposterous, but they _were_ her favorite.  
  
“They don’t fit her anymore do they? They look like they’re for a newborn.”  
  
He was right, “Yeah, you’re right. They don’t fit her anymore.”  
  
“This is all I need,” he said, closing the drawer.  
  
The question was bubbling inside you, and you finally got it out, “Is this your baby?”  
  
Alan laughed, “God, no. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve fucked somebody?” You shook your head; you obviously had no idea. “It’s someone in our community; she just had it last night.”  
  
“She had it in a hospital?”  
  
Alan shook his head and his put the clothes into his coat pocket, “No, she had it with us.” And then his voice became agitated again, “And don’t tell me that we should’ve taken her to a hospital.”  
  
“You should’ve—"  
  
“She didn’t want to go.” He sat back down on the futon defeated, “None of them will go because they say they’ll help them get on their feet, but they don’t. They take their children away and the women end up back on the street.”  
  
“You can’t raise a child in an abandoned subway tunnel,” you told him, your anger beginning to show. This was ridiculous.  
  
“We never do. They never live. The mother’s have no milk. The baby will be dead in a few days. I just wanted her to have something so she could see how pretty her daughter is before—"  
  
“Alan.”  
  
“They don’t want to give their children away. They won’t. It’s just the way it goes. Besides, most of the babies would never live anyway; they’re addicted to drugs.” He got up to leave and you didn’t stop him, “So just let it go. This is the best thing I can do for her right now. I want her to see her baby like the pretty girl she is, so that’s how she’ll remember her.”  
  
You looked back at your painting of the cemetery and thought of that little baby in Amelia’s clothes, “What’s her name?”  
  
“The mother’s name is Tracy, but that’s not her real name. I don’t know her real name. Don’t need to know it. Thanks for lunch and letting me use the shower and all.”  
  
“No, I mean the baby. What’s the baby’s name?”  
  
“It’s better if they don’t name them. It just makes it worse for everyone.”  
  
You stood in Daniel’s doorway, watching Alan walk down the street, how he kept his head down the entire time. You couldn’t shake the image in your mind of Alan in the stench underneath the streets trying so desperately to give this woman a memory she could hang onto.  
  
 _He and Harper are more alike than he thinks,_ you thought as you went back inside.  
  
********************  
 _what is the point of this story?  
what information pertains?  
the thought that life could be better  
is woven indelibly into our hearts and our brains_  
  
Daniel returned from his mother’s funeral and put his nose to the grindstone. He spoke at conference after conference, stayed in his office until way past his usual bedtime reading and taking notes, started coming home later and later, the fault of his bigger patient load. Jonathon told you it was self-inflicted, “It’s the way he deals with everything. He lets something else consume him. He’ll settle down in a few months.”  
  
But he didn’t. He began to volunteer his services to local Assisted Living communities that were woefully short staffed. He told you that at those places, he was mostly just a highly-educated listener. “Those people don’t need my skills, they need human interaction.”  
  
You wanted to tell him that you thought he did to, but in Daniel’s very quiet way, there always seemed to be something slightly angry buried beneath his skin. You were afraid to scratch it for fear of setting it free. Denial and avoidance weren’t new concepts to you; you’d fallen in love with both of them years ago.  
  
But what fueled that denial and avoidance?  
  
That was more of a mystery to you, one whose answer _had_ to lie within you because you could feel it down there somewhere, feel your fingers stretching and stretching as it was always just out of reach. In the two years that followed your return to the city, you tried to find the answer to that question everywhere. And instead of an answer to that question, you found answers to ones that you didn’t even realize you were asking:  
  
That Harper married Sam because she was pregnant and prays everyday for her marriage to work, even though she doesn’t believe in god.  
  
That Zeek was only good for two things: fucking and disappearing.  
  
That the day that Maya broke up with her boyfriend, Brian, was one of the happiest days of your life, but you’d never tell her that. Never. Until she started dating a guy named Larry, and you broke down and begged for her to stop ignoring Brian’s repeated, apologetic phone calls and take him back.  
  
That Alan chose the life he led under the city because it gave him some sort of purpose, because he wanted to define his own circumstances, and, perhaps, because it served as some sort of necessary shield for him from the rest of the world.  
  
That Jonathon shopped when he was unhappy, and ecstatic, and bored, and under the weather, and, once, even when he was horny. And sometimes when Daniel was busier and busier, he took you with him and made you pick out clothes that he thought more suited your ‘current station in life.’ Jonathon’s denial lived in his wallet.  
  
That working out of the home of one of New York’s most respected psychiatrists and art lovers gave you an instant connection to galleries, collectors, and influential people. More than once, Daniel had dined with a friend who just happened to know a friend who had a daughter who ran a gallery in SoHo…Chelsea…Manhattan, and that these contacts actually landed the mayor of New York City at one of your shows. And one of your paintings, fancied by his wife, is now hanging in his house.  
  
That Amelia would never learn your name because her mother told her you were ‘the waffle man, the waffle man, do you know the waffle man?’ And Amelia _loves_ waffles with ‘surp.’ And you.  
  
That everyone you’d grown to love and care about in the city seemed to be living for some purpose or someone. And as you worked late one night trying to finish a piece that you just wanted to be done with, you heard Daniel’s crush-of-late through the walls of your studio, “ _Daniel”_.  
  
That you missed hearing your name whispered and moaned like that. A lot. You went downstairs to Daniel’s study, staring at one of your paintings above his desk, picked up the phone, and called him.  
  
Brian answered quickly, right in the middle of the deep breath you were taking. You said what you wanted to say, what you needed to say, and hung up before he could answer you. When he called right back, you jumped in your chair.  
  
Daniel wandered downstairs a few minutes later as you laid on the sofa in the living room thinking about what Brian had just said, “Who was that?” he asked you, taking two bottles of water out of the fridge.  
  
“Sorry, that was Brian. I used your phone; my cell is dead.”  
  
Daniel sat on the edge of the sofa, “That’s fine. When my phone rings this late at night, it’s usually because of a patient.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t think about that.” You looked at the clock; it was almost eleven thirty.  
  
“Everything okay? You look a little numb.”  
  
You ran your fingers through your hair, “Yeah, I’m okay… It’s just that… I’m going home.”  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Billy Joel’s _New York State of Mind_ , Rosanne Cash’s _Seven Year Ache_ , Simon and Garfunkel’s _Bridge Over Troubled Water_ , Paul Simon’s _Mother and Child Reunion_ , Paul Simon’s _Train in the Distance_ , Simon and Garfunkel’s _Sounds of Silence_ , and Paul Simon’s _Train in the Distance_.


	16. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 13-Segue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 11/19/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 13-SEGUE  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
 _and I really have enjoyed my stay,  
but I must be moving on_   
  
“You know, I remember the first night I met you,” Daniel said to you from his end of the sofa on your last Saturday night in New York. He was drinking a cordial of some sort from a glass that was no doubt more expensive than what was in it.   
  
“Yeah,” you said and smiled as you jiggled the ice in yours. Daniel made a pretty decent vodka tonic. The two of you and Jonathon, Harper, Sam, and Amelia had just had dinner together at a restaurant in the Village. ‘The Last Supper,’ Harper had dubbed it as she’d ordered a Shirley Temple for Amelia.  
  
Jonathon waited patiently as your waitress fetched the drink for Amelia, and Sam told her, “Might as well make it another round. I’m going to be drunk as hell by the time we ever actually get this toast off the ground.”  
  
Jonathon changed the subject, “Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to bestow our going away gift upon you.” He reached under the table and handed you a beautifully wrapped box, a cube around nine inches wide.  
  
“What is this?” you asked.  
  
“Open it,” Harper said with a smile that scared you.  
  
“I’m not responsible for this gift,” Daniel added. “This was not my idea.”  
  
Harper distracted Amelia by tucking the ever-present strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear, “I wish you’d let me put a barrette in your hair, ‘Melia.”  
  
Amelia pushed Harper’s hand away with a dramatic flourish, almost knocking her incoming beverage out of your waitress’s hand, “No. No, Mommy. No ‘bret.” And then she rubbed her eyes; she was getting tired. Her eyes always looked darker when she was sleepy; her red dress starting to sparkle brighter than they were; she was a beautiful little girl even at the glorious age of two and a half. You opened the gift, trying not to destroy the gorgeous wrapping job Jonathon had done. He had a bizarre conglomeration of talents. Amelia asked for the bow and you gave it to her. It occupied her for the next twenty minutes because she insisted on wearing it on her head, “I’m a present,” she announced to the table as the bow slid off of her hair and onto her plate.  
  
Once the paper was gone, you could see the writing on the box: _Rolodix._ “What the hell is this?” you asked.  
  
“Just open it, Justin,” Jonathon chided you.  
  
You pulled it out of the box. Well, it was a Rolodex. One with, um, bonus features.  
  
Harper began to explain, probably because of the wary look on your face, “I helped Jonathon put this together. It’s all of our contacts, galleries, our addresses, everything you’ll need to continue your career—"  
  
Jonathon chimed in an annoyingly upbeat tone, “And randomly throughout it, there are pictures of naked men.”  
  
“And _our_ pictures,” Harper added, “but we’re not naked.”   
  
You spun the Rolodix quickly and were treated to a collage of various nude men spinning in front of your face like a pornographic kaleidoscope, “Uh, thank you?”  
  
Daniel added with more than a hint of sarcasm, “Supposedly it makes your workday go by so much faster.”  
  
“Or harder,” Jonathon added with an evil grin.  
  
“We just don’t want you to forget us, Eggo. That’s all,” Harper added.  
  
“I promise you I won’t.”  
  
Once the last round of drinks arrived, Jonathon cleared his throat and raised his glass, “To Justin. May the rest of your life be as beautiful as the paintings you’ve so graciously sold us.”  
  
Laughter rang out at the table as every glass clanked together. Daniel rolled his eyes at you as if he couldn’t believe that everyone waited for _that_. He’d been unusually quiet all evening.  
  
Harper excused herself to use the restroom after trying unsuccessfully to convince Amelia to join her. Amelia refused, ignoring Harper when she said, “You’re wearing underwear, Amelia, not a diaper. Don’t forget that.”  
  
“Justin, my panties are pink and lellow,” Amelia told you, frustrated that they were covered by her dress and her tights such that she wasn’t able to prove it to you.  
  
Harper shook her head at her headstrong daughter and wove through the tables toward the bathroom, her brown leather purse that she’d been carrying since the day you met her dangling from her fingers. Sam watched her go, and it gave you a sense of déjà vu as you watched his eyes follow her ass ‘til it disappeared. His attentive stare reminded you of Brian.  
  
Amelia broke your daze by dropping her fork on the floor as your waitress was approaching with the dessert tray. Daniel and Jonathon started shaking their heads at each other before she was even halfway to the table, which meant that they’d definitely order dessert. There was something about a post-sugar angst that always remained irresistible to the two of them. After they ordered, Daniel rested his forehead on his palm and stared at the table as if he was ashamed of himself for wanting ‘something chocolate.’   
  
The conversation turned to something socio-political-economical after that, as it always did when Sam was around anybody who had the ability to converse. He liked to _expound_ a lot. Sam was in mid-sentence, “All I’m saying is—,” when Harper returned to the table.  
  
She picked Amelia’s little black coat up off the back of an empty chair and motioned to her husband and daughter, “Come on. Put your coat on Amelia. It’s time to go.”  
  
Sam seemed miffed by the timing, “Can’t we stay a little longer? ‘Melia’s fine. She took a good nap today.”  
  
“No, we need to go,” Harper responded in a voice that settled the issue. You got up and followed them out the door, leaving Daniel and Jonathon completely engrossed in their new pastime: who can name the most varieties of cheese?  
  
*****************  
 _when your girl has left you out on the pavement_   
  
You told Jonathon and Daniel that you’d be right back, but they were oblivious to your actions, their cheese game getting very intense very quickly. It wasn’t until you stepped outside of the restaurant into the biting cold air that you realized why Harper had exited so rapidly. Sam was leaning into her, his hand on her shoulder,   
  
“So, this means you’re not?”  
  
She replied, “That’s what they taught me in sex ed, Sam. So, I guess not.” He took Amelia’s hand and walked away with her, letting her run on the sidewalk and pretend to play hopscotch with herself. Amelia was determined to learn how to hop on one foot. Harper turned to you as you were lighting up, an attempt to keep yourself warm. She took your cigarette away from you, claiming it as she spoke, “I don’t suppose you have a tampon on you.”  
  
“Sorry, just used my last one,” you replied as you lit your own cigarette.  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s what sucks about being friends with gay men. They won’t go to the bathroom with you and they never have anything you need.” The crisp air stilled between the two of you for a few seconds as you stared at her face. Smoking was the only quiet thing that Harper could do with her mouth.  
  
“You thought you were pregnant?”  
  
“Apparently, I’m not.”  
  
You couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Harper could be hard to read sometimes.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I suck at goodbyes, Justin.” That’s why she was testy all of a sudden. “Fuck, I’m going to miss you,” she added, blowing her smoke in the other direction so she didn’t have to look at your face, “Really going to miss you.”  
  
“Me, too.”  
  
“I feel like you’re the second brother I’ll never see.”  
  
“Please tell Alan goodbye for me. That I’ll miss him.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“You’re going to stay in our space, right?” Somehow you felt more comfortable leaving knowing that. You weren’t exactly sure why.  
  
“Yeah, Daniel almost threw a fit when I started looking for another space, so I guess so.”  
  
“I’m glad. Sometimes he needs company.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Amelia hopped past the two of you, her black patent leather shoes smacking the sidewalk as she counted to herself, “One, two three, five and nine and ten!”  
  
“And Amelia, I’m really going to miss her.”  
  
Harper glanced back at her daughter, “And she’s going to miss you. She tells me every single day that you’re the one who painted that tea party mural on the wall in her room.” You smiled. “When we were leaving to come here tonight, Sam picked her up, only to realize that she’d stuffed one of her play waffles and a plastic slice of pizza in her panties. She wanted to give them to you.”  
  
“She’s crafty.”  
  
“Yeah, Sam told her, ‘We don’t carry presents in our panties, ‘Melia.’ I laughed so hard, I almost fell down the stairs. Then Amelia says to him, ‘But it’s a waffle for Waffle,’ and he replied, ‘Justin doesn’t want what’s in your panties.’”  
  
“Truer words were never spoken.”  
  
Harper laughed, “I know. That’s what I told him…Sometimes he’s very prophetic, like that…Shame Maya couldn’t be here tonight.”  
  
“She’s meeting Brian’s parents in Connecticut.”  
  
“Going to the chapel, huh?” she asked.  
  
“Looks that way.”  
  
“Well, good for her…Seems like a lot of ‘Brians’ are getting lucky this week.” You weren’t sure if she was being literal or metaphorical, but with Harper it was usually both.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And then she stepped on her cigarette and leaned in to hug you, whispering in your ear, “Don’t stop painting. Don’t let your muse get fat and happy.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
The two of you stood hugging on the street for a few seconds. When she pulled away, she smiled at you and said, “Just remember, the only difference between good art and love—"  
  
“Is that art lasts longer.”  
  
*****************  
 _maybe you'll get a replacement  
there's plenty like me to be found_   
  
So Daniel was reminding you of the night he met you, his fingers tapping randomly against his glass as he stared at the liquor inside it, “Do you remember?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You know, what I remember most is how you thought I wanted you to sleep with me because I wasn’t able to buy your painting that night.”  
  
You laughed and blushed a little, but the room was fairly dim, so he probably didn’t notice. “That was because you said I could ‘make it up to you.’”  
  
“And when you came back here with Jonathon and I to that get-together I was having that night, I’ll never forget the look on your face when I was giving you the tour and we got to my bedroom—"  
  
“Don’t embarrass me—"  
  
“I couldn’t tell if you wanted to sleep with me or you thought that’s what I expected.” Now Daniel was laughing, too.  
  
“Can we not talk about this?” you asked, but you couldn’t stop smiling. It had been pretty funny.  
  
“I thought to myself, ‘God, this guy must get randomly propositioned all the time. He doesn’t miss a beat.’”  
  
“Yeah, well I do. I’m not exactly used to subtlety in that department.”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t know that it was your boyfriend who was always randomly propositioning you.”  
  
“You’d understand if you knew him…It’s sort of how he expresses affection.” And anger. And jealousy. And sadness. And everything.  
  
He’d made you think of the night you called Brian four months ago to ask to come home. Brian had sounded so grateful, so relieved; it made you feel guilty that you weren’t there right then so he could just fuck you and feel better. Sometimes you felt like it was truly his only real release. You blinked out of your daydream, listening to Daniel again,   
  
“—and then when I asked you if I could commission you to paint a mural for my office, you look so surprised. That I was really interested in your art.”  
  
“You were interested in more than that; you just thought that was your way in.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Yeah, well, I should learn my lesson. Art lasts longer.” Daniel glanced around his living room at the examples displayed everywhere. “And it even keeps you company.” He set down his empty glass and lengthened his arm along the back of the sofa, his index finger pointing at the box on the coffee table, “Sorry about the crude gift.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry. It’s fun… and useful.”  
  
“Like you.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Like you. It’s been so much fun having you here, and you’ve been useful, too, helping me out, looking after the place, I mean…I’m going to miss that.” Daniel’s words seemed to slow down as they rose in his throat, almost surprising you when they actually came out.  
  
Now it was your turn to stare at your drink, your fingers shining with condensation, “I’m going to miss you, too. And I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me…what you’ve given me.” You paused for a second before continuing, “And I’m sorry I let things get mucked up in the beginning.”  
  
“Don’t be. Sometimes two cars are just meant to crash, no matter what path they take.” The two of you simultaneously stared at the fire burning in the fireplace as if you’d been cued. “And I’ve thought about it, we’re not suited for each other, even if you weren’t with someone else.”  
  
That surprised you. “We’re not?”  
  
“I’d smother you to death. I’d never be able to let you go live away from me for all these years, not knowing where you were, what you were doing.” He shook his head, “I’m not cut out for that…Probably too insecure.” You sat your glass on the table as he finished his thought, “It takes a strong man to live without the person he loves for five years.”  
  
“Six.”  
  
“Right. Six. Even better….So, have you found a workspace yet in Pennsylvania?”  
  
“No, not exactly. Well, not officially, rather. The art school that I sort of attended is offering me a place on their faculty, and that would include my own space.”  
  
“Justin, that’s fantastic. You’re going do it?”  
  
“Haven’t decided yet.”  
  
“What would you be teaching?”  
  
“Sort of a seminar class on graphic art versus traditional disciplines. It’s not an actual class or anything, feels more like a workshop to me.”  
  
“Sounds intriguing.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”  
  
*****************  
 _you can't plant me in your penthouse  
I'm going back to my plough_   
  
The afternoon sun was right in your eyes as you finished packing up your studio that Tuesday afternoon. When Daniel arrived home, he spoke to you from the doorway on his tiptoes because you were practically hidden by boxes, “So, I guess this is it, huh?”  
  
You surveyed the sea of cardboard you’d created, “Yeah, I guess so. And listen, everything’s labeled with my name and address, so there shouldn’t be any problem when the movers get here.”  
  
“Don’t worry; I’ll make sure they take care of it.” Daniel wandered over to one of the boxes, examining your address, “West Virginia?”  
  
“Yeah, Brian’s house…our house, I guess, is in West Virginia. He works in Pittsburgh.”  
  
“Hmm. Didn’t know that.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s this big mansion, basically.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
You gave your studio one more once over before letting Daniel know, “Gotta go home and pack now, and I promised Maya we’d go out to dinner.”  
  
“You’re leaving tomorrow and you haven’t packed your apartment?”  
  
“I have almost nothing there. I’ll just stuff it all in this really big duffle bag.”  
  
“You know, for a guy who’s close to thirty, you sure travel light.”  
  
You laughed, “Force of habit. Long story.”  
  
*****************  
 _and I hope that you're still out there and you're like you used to be_   
  
Everyone offered to go with you to the airport that Wednesday, but you politely refused. There were only so many goodbyes one person can take. And as you walked through the airport that day, you felt a another shiver of déjà vu once again, your solitary walk through the terminal reminding you of the one you’d made six years ago when you left Pittsburgh.  
  
 _So that no matter who you’re ever with, I’ll always be there._  
  
Only this time, you weren’t overcome with heartache from leaving Brian, you were anxious to be with him again. You’d changed a lot in six years, grown up a lot, and Brian had seen some of it, glimpses of it during passionate encounters that the two of you had over the years. But he hadn’t seen all of it, the incident with Cody bringing out the protector in him and a fiercely independent streak in you. Only once had you and Brian spoken specifically about that day, a few weeks after you’d returned to the city, and for whatever reason, the conversation disintegrated into an argument that you didn’t feel like having. You sort of remember deliberately reminding Brian that you were in New York for _yourself_ , not because _he_ felt you should be there. It was stupid, just one of those spats that frustrated people have sometimes, but the sadness in his voice that he tried to hide the next couple of times you spoke to him started to make you ache—to go home and fix things, to do something to make that despondent tone go away.  
  
 _It’s only time._   
  
Six years ago, when you started this journey, it felt like so much more than time. It felt like heartbreak, like endless longing, as if the two of you, even though you were in different states, were still together, only trapped on either side of a soundproof wall that once in a while became transparent. It wouldn’t be the first time that Brian had watched you through a window. Perhaps, he was just better at it than you were.  
  
But all along, Brian had been right; it _was_ only time, and like money, it spent like crazy, both of you feeling like your pockets were full of it. Half of the time when you pulled a dollar out of your pocket, you expected to see Brian’s face on it instead of George Washington’s.  
  
 _In Kinney we trust._  
  
You laughed at your ridiculous imagination, as if Brian’s face would ever be on a _one_ dollar bill.  
  
Your imagination morphed into reality when they called your flight, “ _Flight six forty-seven, New York to Pittsburgh, now boarding…”_  
  
A tiny jolt of excitement shot through your entire body as you lined up with a crowd of mostly businessmen, eventually taking your rightful seat with them in first class. The coach seat you’d initially purchased was fine with you, but Brian strongly encouraged you to upgrade immediately. You weren’t even living with him yet, and the red carpet was already tickling the bottoms of your feet.  
  
*****************  
 _as if I didn't know my own bed_   
  
As you rode in the cab to the house in West Virginia, the sun was setting against a persistent skyline of thick, gray clouds. Going from New York to Pittsburgh to the outskirts of West Virginia had planted a mosaic of images in your head on some sort of continuum from busy and hectic to almost serene. Miles and miles of nothing but undeveloped land welcomed you home as you took a deep breath and smiled.  
  
You’d made the right decision.  
  
Brian had overnighted you a key to the house that Monday morning, but you had to call him and let him know you were home already because it wouldn’t turn. The irony of having come that far only to not be able to get in the door wasn’t lost on you.  
  
When you stepped inside the house, you were immediately struck by the echo you weren’t expecting. The dark interior of the place seemed awfully empty, but as you wandered around on the ground floor, you saw that it wasn’t empty; it was just _huge_. The cleaning lady had probably come that morning because you couldn’t find a trash can with trash in it or a fleck of dust anywhere.   
  
Brian would be home in twenty six minutes.  
  
You walked upstairs carefully, your bag on one shoulder and your head raised eyeing the wrought iron light fixtures that hung over the foyer. There was only one door open on the second floor; it was Brian’s bedroom.  
  
It too was dark, decorated with a myriad of shades of dark blue, only much more ornate than anything you’d ever seen in the loft. Your black duffle bag looked out of place when you propped it in a chair next to the bed. Indeed, the chair almost looked offended.  
  
There was a gas fireplace at the foot of Brian’s bed and recent pictures of Mel, Lindsay, and the kids on the mantle. There wasn’t a picture of you. The Christmas card you’d sent him a couple of months ago was there however, along with the one you’d sent him the year before that. His bed was made and very different from the one at the loft. This one had a black wrought iron bed frame and was much higher off the ground, suiting a tall man like Brian much better. You ran your hand over the embroidered designs on the bedspread, enjoying the way they rippled underneath your fingers. You stepped into the bathroom and your senses were already smelling Brian’s cologne, his after shave, his body after he’d showered, before you’d even drawn a breath in the spacious room. There was more that you could look at, more that you could touch, but you began to feel like you were snooping, so you left your bag in the haughty chair and went back downstairs to the living room to wait for Brian.  
  
The living room struck you as stepped through the doorway because it was so different from the last time you’d been here, the hardwood floor that the two of you made love on now covered with a beautiful oriental rug replete with autumn tones. Although Brian had kept a lot of the whites and off-whites he’d used at the loft, they were layered with hues of pumpkin and gold and even a deep burgundy that made the room feel warm and welcoming and _wealthy._ And in the midst of all of that elegance, fanned proudly on the coffee table, were the latest issues of every men’s magazine you could think of. You sat on the sofa and picked one up, rarely a clothed man inside.  
  
Except you, when your picture fell out.  
  
It was a picture that someone had taken of the two of you at your abandoned rehearsal dinner. Brian was in the shot smiling down at you. You wondered if he still had that jacket; the two of you had fucked quite ferociously after you’d called off your wedding, and seeing Brian in that jacket again was beginning to make your pants tight. You tucked the picture back inside the magazine it’d fallen out of and picked up another one to read while waiting for him.  
  
Ten minutes.  
  
You tried to read an article entitled, _Seven Brand New Ways to Please Your Man—Tonight!_ , but when the article suggested that your partner might enjoy your mouth ‘someplace that you’ve probably never thought of!’, you tossed it back on the table. Clearly, Brian wasn’t buying those magazine for the articles.  
  
Two minutes earlier than you’d expected, you saw headlights coming down the road, and you stood by the window to see if it was him. You were clutching your hand to your chest, unknowingly pressing against your heart as if to silence it, as you watched his car turn into the driveway. The garage door groaned as he raised it, but his car stopped several feet before pulling in.  
  
He’d seen you in the window.  
  
You watched with pleasure as his long legs emerged from the car, a slim briefcase in his right hand, and walked down the sidewalk to the front door. He pushed it open as you pulled, smiling as you almost made him fall through the entrance.  
  
You apologized to the lapel of his black overcoat as he wrapped his arms around you, his right hand moving off of you only long enough to slam the door.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Supertramp’s _Goodbye Stranger_ , ABC’s _The Look of Love_ , Elton John’s _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ twice, Steve Winwood’s _Back In the High Life_ , and Paul Simon’s _Graceland_.


	17. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 14-Milestone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 11/29/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 14-MILESTONE  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _every day's an endless stream  
of cigarettes and magazines _   
  
The drive home the night Justin returned, the onslaught of headlights coming at you one after another in the opposing lane, seemed a fitting visual representation of your life—the past and the present. Your trip began as it did every night, at least fifteen minutes of cars coming at you, not one distinguishable from any other. Their lights were bright and caught your attention, but they were always forgotten as soon as you passed them by. And then the cars would thin out and a few would pass, occasionally turning your head, but your focus was changing to the cars in front of you then, keeping time with them as they traveled ahead of you, your foot always ready to hit the brakes when things got too close for comfort.   
  
Ultimately though, every night, the lanes would narrow bit by bit until it was just you on a dark road where you needed your brights to be able to see anything at all. The congestion and distraction were gone, but as always on a two lane road in the black middle of nowhere, there would be that one car, that one beacon, that demanded to be followed, that demanded to set the pace all the way home.  
  
“ _Mr. Kinney, you are one mile from your destination. Have a nice evening.”_  
  
As a younger guy, the frustration of being forced to slow down for anybody would irritate and enrage you, but as you got older, you became grateful for that steady light in the distance that, if you just followed it, would eventually lead you home.  
  
As you wound along that road that night, you turned off the radio because you just didn’t want talk radio chatter invading your thoughts. You wanted to think about _him_ , the fact that he was really home, really in your house, and patiently waiting for you to get to him. He was so much better at waiting than you were; you’d actually entertained notions of abandoning your car and commandeering a private helicopter so the waiting would be over. But somehow, you didn’t think an emergency landing in your front yard was what Justin had in mind for that night.  
  
The picture forming in your mind of him waiting inside the house kept changing.   
  
Sometimes you were walking into the living room, approaching him, as he stood at the bar with his back to you. He wouldn’t turn around, even when you said his name.   
  
Sometimes he was sprawled out on the sofa—completely nude—sketching a picture of you, also sprawled on a couch and totally nude, on his chest with a permanent marker.  
  
Sometimes he’d lead you on a wild chase throughout the house that always ended with him running out the back door and disappearing into the thick woods.   
  
_Distraction._  
  
As you took the last, winding mile to your house, you glanced down at your gloved hand wrapped around the gearshift and wondered who was really driving this car.   
You or your dick.  
  
After all, you had your dick to thank for introducing you to Justin in the first place. And tonight, you were going to thank it properly.   
  
If the powerful force of your car’s turbo engine had failed you, your dick seemed to have enough kinetic energy to get all three of you home. And strangely enough, it seemed to have an amazing sense of direction tonight. Usually the only place it was familiar with was due north.   
  
You had sympathy for it, though, because it’d literally been fasting for over three months. _Three months._ Hell, they could’ve built _Rome_ in three months. You’d been compelled on several occasions, albeit mostly when it was just the two of you, to explain to it that it wasn’t being punished.   
  
Not at all.   
  
“You’re being rewarded,” you told it. “I promise, _rewarded._ ”  
  
It didn’t seem to believe you, though, and threw up on you every time you had that conversation. But, like most cocks, it still woke up early in the morning and crowed, so to speak, as if by reminding you of its neglected presence, you’d give in to its demands.   
  
*********************  
 _home, where my thought's escaping_   
  
As you got closer to home, parts of your body that you hadn’t even realized had gone into hibernation started to wake up. You gripped the wheel, steering with a determination that rivaled even your innate tenaciousness, and as you approached the house, you saw him.  
  
In the window.  
  
His blond hair in sharp contrast to the dark shirt he was wearing, his thumb propping up his chin, his index finger laying across his lips as if he was studying the front yard. He moved his hand and smiled when you turned in the driveway, and as you walked up the sidewalk, you watched him pass in front of another window out of the corner of your eye. You fumbled with your key out of habit, but he was right there when you turned the knob.   
  
The door opened and you quite literally _fell_ in love.  
  
It was everything you could do, every impulse you could fight, not to just pick him up off of his feet, toss him over your shoulder, and drag him to your cave. Maybe he sensed this, his hands clutching your arms, graciously keeping you in the moment.  
  
It would be the first night that your car ever spent in the driveway.  
  
*********************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _right here, right now  
there is no other place I want to be_   
  
The thick wool of Brian’s coat bunched underneath your fingers as he held you. Finally, when you felt his grasp loosen, you looked up at him and apologized again, “Sorry I made you trip.”  
  
He just smiled and then said in a voice that was quieter than you’d expected, “Sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up. It was right in the middle of a huge presentation.”  
  
“S’okay. I’m used to taxis.”  
  
His hand rolled down the back of your head, “Yeah, I guess you are.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
What was probably only a few seconds felt like an eternity to you, and you were grateful when Brian stepped away, walked into the living room and offered you a drink. You gladly took the whiskey he handed you, anxious to have something to do with your hands.  
  
“You look really nice,” you said, thinking that you remembered whiskey burning a lot more than it did that night.  
  
“Presentation,” Brian reiterated as he hung up his coat, as if he only looked fantastic when he was performing for clients.  
  
“This house is so big, and it’s kind of cold in here,” you told him, thinking, after you said it, that you sounded like a simpleton.  
  
“I can change that,” he said, throwing you off guard when he walked past you to the fireplace. It was only then that you noticed that the fire had been prepped; he only had to light it. The wood crackled as it came to life. “Better?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s nice.”  
  
He motioned to the sofa, “Sit down, relax. Are you hungry?” You were hungrier earlier, but your appetite had mysteriously disappeared.  
  
“No, not really. But if you are—"  
  
“I’m fine. Had a late lunch.” He sat beside you on the sofa, and almost immediately, you felt his outstretched hand resting on your shoulder, warm even through your sweater. He squeezed your shoulder, “It’s nice to have you back.”  
  
“It’s nice to be back.” Brian studied your face as if trying to ascertain if you were serious.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He leaned forward, his fingers wrapping more tightly around your shoulder as he took your empty glass out of your hand and sat it on the table with a muted _clunk_. “Justin, come here,” he breathed, his grip tightening again as he pulled you to him.   
  
You felt yourself lose all semblance of free will and unable to do anything else besides stare at his necktie as it came closer and closer to your face. He lifted your chin with his index finger, and for some reason, when he leaned down to kiss you, you started talking again, “I missed you.” His response to you, as always, was more physical than verbal. You caught your breath briefly when your lips parted, “so much.”  
  
The next thing you knew, he was lying back on the couch and you were going with him. You kicked your shoes off and started unraveling his tie. You untucked his shirt and ran your hands underneath it, half rubbing, half holding him. He was warm and smooth and he smelled like the Brian you knew with a splash of the Brian you didn’t. A shiver went through you as his lips moved over the side of your face, behind your ear, and down your neck, his fingers wound tightly in your hair.   
  
You had no idea who or what was driving this thing because the energy between you seemed to propel itself from you to him and back again every few seconds. You couldn’t harness it if your life had depended on it.  
  
Neither one of you had any intention of going gentle into that good night.  
  
*********************  
 _as I remember what a night_   
  
After several minutes of kissing him, of feeling his tongue trace the inside of your mouth, he mumbled into your ear, “On the floor,” as he sat up and more or less pushed you off the sofa. Brian began to undress you and then himself, puling you down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Before you knew it you were on all fours facing the flames, the fire certainly not to blame for the rising temperature in the room.  
  
His hands ran down the sides of your body and your back with purpose, and you got the distinct impression that he was admiring you. You felt his cock, warm and hard, pressing against you, and you knew he was going to take you. For a split second you worried about coming all over his expensive, oriental rug, but that second vanished into your memory when you felt his hand between your legs, his fingers lightly stroking the inside of your thigh, the sounds of his breathing competing with the sound of hot smoke being whisked up the chimney.   
  
This wasn’t an elegant but sterile hotel room in the city or even the loft where the two of lived together. This was his house, and you were on his turf, in his territory, and he was claiming you.  
  
His hand left you for a second and returned warm and wet, and your upper body sank into the carpet. He felt you take a deep breath, “Relax.”  
  
“Fuck me.”  
  
And he did, just like you wanted, leaving you within an inch of your life.  
  
And then he took that, too.  
  
It started out rough and almost awkward, as if your bodies needed to get re-acquainted with each other, but within mere seconds the two of you were moving in one fluid motion. Your eyes locked on the intricate designs in the carpet underneath your fingers, sliding in concert with Brian’s thrusts. You reached back and slapped his thigh when you couldn’t stop the ecstatic rush inside you, and he immediately looped his right arm underneath you, pulling you back and up so that you were kneeling on his lap facing the fire. Sweat burst from your pores as you came, your cock held tightly in his hand. You rode him as you rode the wave rolling through your body, arching your back to accommodate the sheer force of it. The third time you sat down on him, he came, squeezing you, grazing your shoulder with his teeth. Brian brought his hand to your mouth and you laughed; it was so hot, it was already dry.  
  
“ _Justin,”_ he moaned, kissing the back of your neck and your shoulders, “Welcome home.”  
  
*********************  
 _sweet surrender, what a night_   
  
Brian looked down on you where you lay in his bed, kissing the side of your face, commenting on how hot your skin was.  
  
“The fire,” you reminded him.  
  
“Right, the fire,” he mumbled, his lips now buried in your neck, “very hot.”   
  
You smiled, tugging on him until he rose up and looked at you, “Brian, come here.”  
  
He lay partially on top of you, holding you in his arms, “Hmm?”  
  
“Can we just slow down for a second?”  
  
“You okay?” he asked.  
  
You smiled and rubbed his face with the back of your fingers, “Just a little overwhelmed, that’s all. Just give me a minute.”  
  
Brian laid his head next to yours on the pillow, “You can have all night. In fact,” he kissed the top of your head, “you can have anything you want.”  
  
You turned to face him, “I want _you,_ ” and then closed your eyes, your body absorbing the warmth of his.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Something about the way the two of you were laying made you suddenly remember your first night, or rather, first morning, with him; how you’d wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, almost to prove to yourself that he was real. Now when you touched him, when you reached for him, he didn’t ask you what your name was, he moaned a little and held you tighter.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Brian, the house looks amazing.”  
  
“It looks a lot better with you in it.”  
  
……  
  
You laughed, “I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I.”  
  
……  
  
Lying with him like this, with your face pressed against his chest, had to be the most wonderful place in the world to be. You reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear as you asked, “Who knows I’m here?”  
  
He laughed quietly, “Nobody, really,” and then he paused a second before continuing, “I didn’t really tell any of our friends.”  
  
……  
  
“Because you didn’t think I’d really come back?”  
  
“Didn’t want to jinx it, I guess,…but I’ve been in a really good mood this week, so knowing Cynthia, she’s probably figured it out.”  
  
“She won’t tell anybody. She’s more loyal than a Golden Retriever.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You have two blonds in your life that love you, huh?”  
  
“You forgot Lindsay.”  
  
“Right. Three.”  
  
“Couldn’t handle another one, that’s for sure.”  
  
“How’s Gus?”  
  
“Unbelievable. He’s great.”  
  
……  
  
The next few minutes passed without words, Brian’s hand smoothing down your back, his kiss strong and soft at the same time, your fingers toying with his hair. It became hard for you to believe that you’d mostly gone without this for six years, as your heart, mind, and body easily settled back into being with him, listening to him, touching him.  
  
Wanting him.  
  
Every breath he took as he held you felt like a quiet confirmation of your love for him.  
  
……  
  
After a while he rolled on top of you, both of you hard, and moved against you, his hand wrapping around your bottom as he kept you as close as he could. You tore open the condom and handed it to him when the wanting became so overpowering that you feared you might disintegrate underneath him. His deep, low moan washed over you as he raised your legs and made his way inside you.  
  
You loved being fucked like this, being powerless under the weight and movements of his body, being the source of that delicious smile that spread across his face. He lay on top of you, slowly stroking your cock as he moved, kissing you with a tenderness that almost drove you mad.  
  
The kind of mad that made you want to grab him, bite his earlobe, and beg him to fuck the shit of you.   
  
But after six years of waiting to have you back in his bed, he was in no hurry.  
  
You tried to prepare yourself emotionally for what this was going to be, but it was futile even to try. There was no explaining this or rationalizing it; there was only the unfuckingbelievable sensation of having him inside you, of being so completely full and loved, spread and open.  
  
……  
  
“ _God, I love you, Brian,”_ you whispered in his ear, the words feeling far too inadequate for the moment. “I don’t even know how to express it.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s on a canvas somewhere,” he teased you, an attempt to make you laugh through the intensity.  
  
 _He’s right,_ you thought, _It’s on all of them._  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _reunited  
and it feels so good_   
  
You fed him your cock in the shower, holding his head firmly as it collided with the back of his throat. You’d suggested the shower as a way of cooling things down a little, your bodies and your emotions. It failed on both counts when you were stroking his hair after you came and remembered how you could always see his scar when he was on his knees in the shower.  
  
You took your mind off of that by washing his hair as he knelt in front of you and making a stupid joke about trying to have rubber knee-pads installed in the shower before he got home. His response was to laugh and pull you down there with him, and he turned around and leaned against you as the water streamed over both of you.   
  
……  
  
The two of you descended the stairs together to be sure the fire had gone out and to close the flue. For some reason that night, it seemed like a two person job. You turned off the lights downstairs and led him to the sauna, watching as his face lit up in amazement when he walked inside.  
  
“Get the fuck out. We have a sauna?”   
  
There was a sadness, a palpable sadness in the air, when he slipped out of the thin, gray, clingy pants that he was wearing and you were worshipping.   
  
“Yes, we do.” He stretched out of one of the ample benches, and you sat one step below him and faced him as he tucked one hand under his head, lazily stroking your thigh with the other. He closed his eyes, and you ran your fingers through his wet hair, “New York was great, huh?”  
  
He opened them and smiled, “Beyond great. It was fantastic.”  
  
“Gonna miss it, aren’t you?”  
  
“There’s a lot of it I’ll miss: my friends, the endless inspiration, the anonymity of the whole place, you know?”  
  
“Contagious.”  
  
He propped his chin on his hand, “You know, Brian, I understand now why you wanted to go so badly. It’s like you can be anybody you want there.”   
  
“It’s liberating.”  
  
“Exactly…We wouldn’t happen to have an indoor pool, would we?”  
  
You laughed at the change of subject, “Not yet. But you never know.”  
  
“That’s a Jacuzzi in our bathroom, isn’t it?”  
  
“Absolutely. And that other door in the bathroom goes to the tanning bed.”  
  
“Man, we are rich.”  
  
“That we are.”  
  
……  
  
“Thanks for letting me come back…for waiting for me.”  
  
*********************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _knockin’ at the door of your candy store_   
  
Brian rose and moved up to where you were, lining up over your body, and even though you were in a steamy sauna, you felt a chill for a moment as his lips pressed lightly between your shoulders, “Don’t thank me. This is your home.”   
  
Your fingers wrapped around the edge of your step as he kissed his way down your back, his hand sliding simultaneously down the right side of your body. When he got to the curve of your lower back, he stopped, letting you feel his hot breath hovering over your ass.   
  
Maybe he _was_ reading those articles, after all…  
  
 _Rimming can be delightfully nasty, or a deeply tender act that two lovers share._  
  
 _Some say there is nothing as arousing as having their lover’s warm, soft tongue and lips give them pleasure in such an incredibly intimate place, and those who love to give it find the experience equally as arousing. If you aren’t sure if your partner will be interested in this activity, always ask before just diving in!_  
  
……  
  
 _Do you like to rim?_  
  
 _I love it._  
  
……  
  
“Up on your knees.”  
  
……  
  
 _The easiest position for rimming is doggie-style, with the rim-ee on all fours. This way you can gently spread their cheeks with your hands, and see everything clearly as you dip your tongue in and out._  
  
……  
  
Or maybe Brian wrote it.  
  
 _For many people, rimming is a delicious experience, both on the giving and the receiving end._  
  
……  
  
Or maybe Brian paid someone to write it for him.  
  
……  
  
Or maybe some other guy that Brian rimmed wrote it.  
  
……  
  
You could tell that Brian only had one hand on your ass after a while and knew that he was jerking off. So you pressed back against his mouth, smiling when you felt him shoot, felt that warm wetness run down your leg. Brian followed it, licking the back of your leg clean, his tongue spending too much time behind your knee where you’re ticklish.  
  
“Stop it. Oh my god, stop it,” you begged, squirming underneath him. He knew better than to do that; he tried it once to rouse you from sleep and ended up getting clocked smack in the back of the head with your heel when you woke up. He complained for a week that he was disoriented because of you, instead of whiskey and poppers.  
  
 _For a week._  
  
And then you realized that that incident happened ten years ago.   
  
_Ten years ago._  
  
It’d been a _decade_ since you kicked Brian in the back of the head. Granted, he was probably due again.  
  
But tonight he was spared that fate, and after he’d had his (temporary) fill of you, he helped you put your sweat pants and one of his sweatshirts on and led you to the kitchen, “I know you’re hungry. Fucking always makes you hungry.” Which would explain why you were _always_ hungry when you lived with Brian. You munched a bowl of Cheerios while Brian ate a spoonful of peanut butter, telling you, “This is really incredible peanut butter, but it can’t hold a candle to your ass.”  
  
The two of you were eating like peasants, cursing like sailors, and fucking like kings.  
  
*********************  
 _man it's a hot one,  
like seven inches from the midday sun_   
  
Rejuvenated, as only Cheerios and peanut butter can do, you both meandered back upstairs, stopping halfway up because Brian wanted to make out, his hand slipping effortlessly underneath the waistband of your pants. He insisted on taking your pants off for you once you were finally back in the bedroom, staring lovingly at them before letting them hit the floor.   
  
“What is your affliction with my pants?” you asked, as he came to bed and laid on top of you.  
  
“They’re sublime.”  
  
“They’re just _pants._ ”  
  
“They’re a cruel mistress whose very existence taunts me into madness.”  
  
You laughed, “And they love every minute of it.”  
  
“Clearly.”  
  
……  
  
Outside your house, skeleton-like trees were becoming slick with a slow rain that slid down the ruts in their trunks, the indentations years in the making. The wind blew like insulation on the other side of your bedroom windows, muffling the occasional sound of weak tree limbs cracking and falling. Inside, the sweet smell of pot filled the room as Brian lit up and passed it to you.  
  
“I missed seeing you smile,” he said as he handed you the joint, stroking the side of your face, making you smile again.  
  
Your bedroom was toasty, the fireplace and Brian emitting a steady warmth that negated the need for sheets and blankets at that moment. Between that and fucking, showering, and steaming with him, your body was relaxed and receptive. Once the pot was gone, Brian’s mouth was soft on yours, his kiss drawing out everything that he wanted from you bit by bit. When he pulled away now and then, your mouth followed his, your head rising up off of your pillow in an attempt to bring him back to you. You moaned when you heard him snap open the lube right next to your ear. He held you close as he kissed you again, his right hand moving between your legs. You felt your body expecting him, wanting him, and then shaking for a second as he slipped his finger inside you, Brian’s long fingers and strong arms always rendering you useless. Your finger traced the outline of his bicep as you listened to him,   
  
“Feel good?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
……  
  
“You know, Brian, you’re the only person I know whose drug holder cost more than their drugs.”  
  
“Aw, I got that for free,” he said, nodding toward his sleek silver case. “It was a prize in the bottom of a baggie.”   
  
You laughed, “And you have no idea how fucking sexy you are when you’re getting high.”  
  
He grinned and raised his eyebrow, “Oh yes, I do,” his palm pressing against the delicate skin between your ass and your balls, his thumb gently caressing them as you moaned. You knew what he was doing, he knew that you knew, and you were more than happy to lie back and enjoy it.   
  
An impromptu fisting rehearsal.  
  
He was so beautiful when he was like this, his eyes were so dark, his hands were so warm and soft, and as he fluttered the two fingers inside you, you reached for your cock, stroking it with one hand and his hair with the other. When he worked up to three, you felt that familiar feeling of almost floating as his face moved down your stomach, his lips brushing over your stroking fingers, and then ending up gently licking and sucking on your balls. Having your hand on your cock, his mouth on your balls, and then four fingers in your ass was about as close to heaven as a person could get.   
  
He knew your body wasn’t ready to take anymore, not just yet, but he stayed inside you, kissing and nibbling between your legs until your breathing and the pressure on his hand told him that you were going to come. And as you did, he pushed your hand out of the way and swallowed your cock, drinking down every ounce that was pouring out of you. You collapsed against the sheets, exhausted, and he was still inside you…mumbling something about possession being nine tenths of the law.  
  
 _”More,”_ you said, your hand moving over his face.  
  
He shook his head, “Not tonight.”  
  
“Uh.”  
  
“Soon,” he promised. “You’re not ready.”  
  
“I want to be ready,” you whined, and he smiled at you.  
  
“I know. You will be.” Your ass squeezed his fingers and he laughed, “Let’s fuck. Shall we?”  
  
*********************  
 _I am a rock_   
  
When you were a little boy and your mom finally explained sex to you because your father just couldn’t seem to get the words out, you were completely disgusted. The whole concept seemed completely revolting, but there were probably two very good reasons for that. One, you never imagined yourself ever touching a _girl_ and your mother made no mention of boys touching boys. Two, your mother was explaining all of this to you by way of a bright yellow pamphlet (no doubt from her generation) entitled, _How to Talk About Sex with Children Ages Five to Eight._  
  
You were ten.  
  
And therefore, of course, deeply offended that you were behind schedule.  
  
The pamphlet went to great lengths to explain fertilization… _between chickens._ Not once, in the ten years of your life up to that point, had you had even a remotely sexual thought about a chicken. For a year after that, you refused to eat eggs, but then your mother made you a cake for your eleventh birthday and after you ate it, she told you it had eggs in it—so you got over it.   
  
But the thing you remember most about that pamphlet and the reason that you stole it out of your mother’s dresser, under the guise of sparing Molly the same fate as you, was the black and white picture of the statue of David strangely placed on the page after the chicken debacle. You remember staring at that picture at night in your room, hiding the pamphlet in your pillowcase and extinguishing the flashlight when you heard your parents’ footsteps on the stairs.  
  
The first time you got a hard on, you cried, fearing that you, too, were turning into a statue.  
  
How you became an artist after all of that, you’ll never know.  
  
And it was so nice to be back in bed with Brian, where he was quite clearly the artist in residence. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect the first night you met Brian, what sex would really feel like, who would do what and when, but he took all of those nagging questions away from you one by one as he stroked you, kissed you, rimmed you, and fucked you.   
  
You were so scared when you realized that he was going to fuck you, that he _wanted_ to fuck you. And when he undressed and began to touch you, you wanted to tell him that every time you closed your eyes, you saw the statue of David lying on top of you, and that he wasn’t as heavy as you thought he would be.  
  
So, that night, after he’d gotten his fill of you, quite literally, and it was time to go to sleep, a question was burning inside you that you just had to ask. You waited, much to Brian’s chagrin, until he was almost asleep before you got up your nerve,   
  
“ _Brian?”  
  
“What?”  
  
……  
  
“I was just wondering, have you ever been to Italy?”_  
  
He rolled over and looked at you like you were an alien he’d brought home by accident, “ _No. Why?”_  
  
You were afraid to tell him why because maybe Brian had read that stupid booklet too, and he would know _exactly_ what you were thinking and what you’d done at night under the covers with a flashlight, “ _No reason.”_  
  
That night, you decided that this man sleeping beside you didn’t even own a flashlight. He didn’t need one.  
  
“ _Whatever. Just go to sleep.”_  
  
You pretended right then that he’d said, “ _Justin , go to sleep,”_ and fell asleep that much faster.  
  
And after that night, you returned your father’s flashlight with very dead batteries to the garage, putting it back in the same place you’d stolen it from seven years ago. When your father came home from work that night, he marched into the kitchen with it, demanding that someone tell him, “ _Where the hell has this thing been?”_ You just smiled at the green bean casserole on your plate and said nothing. And that night in bed, you’d thought about Brian under the covers and how you’d never need a flashlight anymore.  
  
*********************  
 _no, a little birdie told me you can’t make it by yourself_   
  
The first morning you woke up in your spacious, new home wasn’t of your own accord. It was six-o-three a.m., and Brian was leaning over your shoulder and staring at your face. An alarm had probably gone off, but you weren’t quite used to ignoring them. All three of Daniel’s had gone off at four thirty in the morning and you could hear them all the way in your room. Besides, you were an artist, and artist’s don’t punch a clock.  
  
Brian obviously thought otherwise, “Wake up.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I wanna fuck before I get in the shower.” Never let it be said that Brian Kinney doesn’t believe in the direct approach.   
  
You poked your ass in his direction, “Here, my ass is awake.” When you heard Brian fumbling with condoms and lube, you rolled over, “Honestly, you don’t even care if I’m awake or not, do you?”  
  
The expression on Brian’s face was your answer, but he shrugged and gave you one anyway, “Not really.” And then he looked more closely at the look on _your_ face and added, “You know I’ll have a better day if we fuck.” You were still groggy, but you could’ve sworn he was batting his eyelashes and pouting. You performed a perfect dramatic sigh as you rolled on your stomach, and Brian’s arms came down over yours, holding your hands as he fucked you. “I love you.”  
  
You laughed, “You love fucking.”  
  
“I love fucking you.”  
  
……  
  
“You have to go to work?” you asked as you realized that it was very nice to wake up this way.  
  
“Yeah. Things will let up in about a week or so. Then I can play hooky.”  
  
He kissed the side of your face as you told him, “I don’t want you to go.”  
  
“How else will I ever afford the indoor pool you want?”  
  
“I just wanna fuck all day.”  
  
“See what a little whore you are when you wake up?” he asked you as he gripped your hip and then whispered in the back of your neck, “I want you to come.”  
  
“Let me up,” you whispered back, and he backed off a little so you could push up on your knees. You steadied yourself, rubbing your cock, and Brian’s hands slid under your ass, his thumbs spreading you open as he fucked you. The moment began to fast forward as Brian’s breathing became harsher, and you came right before he did, the weight of his body pressing you back into the sheets you’d just risen from. He rolled you over and kissed you, and you let your hands wander down to his ass as you held him, “You are a very sexy alarm clock,” you told him as he kissed you for the last time before getting up to shower.  
  
“Wanna join me?” he asked hopefully.  
  
But you were already falling back asleep.  
  
*********************  
 _your reason for living’s your reason for leaving_   
  
Later that morning, you were lying on black sofa in the home theater room watching a movie when the phone rang and scared the shit out of you.  
  
" _This is MCI with a collect call from, ‘Alan’. Will you accept the charges?”_  
  
“Yes. Alan?” You could hear the noise of the city rushing around him.  
  
“ _Justin?”_  
  
“Hey. What’s up?” It’d been a week since the full moon.  
  
“ _Sorry I’m calling collect.”_  
  
“That’s okay. You all right?”  
  
“ _Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just didn’t get a chance to tell you goodbye.”_ And then he paused and you would’ve thought that he hung up, except you could hear car horns honking every few seconds. “ _I’m really gonna miss you.”_  
  
“I’m gonna miss you, too. I already miss everybody, actually.”  
  
“ _It’s weird to go to the studio and not see you there or your stuff. It kinda freaked me out.”_  
  
“How’s Harper?”  
  
“ _Fine, I guess. But she misses you; I can tell.”_  
  
“I miss her, too.”  
  
“ _Justin, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t the one who stole your computer.”_  
  
“That’s okay. That was ages ago; don’t worry about it.”  
  
" _I’m not positive, but I think some friends of mine stole it. I think they followed me to Josie’s place sometimes. They knew she fed me and stuff. I think they were sort of jealous.”_  
  
“Alan, it’s no big deal. Just—"  
  
“ _Anyway, neither of them are alive anyway. They’ve been dead for awhile.”_  
  
“Alan, don’t worry about it; I’m serious. Just take care of yourself, and stay warm. It’s freezing out there. I’m sure I’ll get back to the city for something, and maybe I can see you then.”  
  
“ _Yeah, that would be cool. I’d rather tell you goodbye in person. But, look, I gotta go. Some cops are staring at me like I don’t have the right to use a fucking pay phone.”_  
  
“Okay, okay. Take care, Alan. Thanks for calling.”  
  
“ _Bye, Justin.”_  
  
You hung up the phone, went in the kitchen and found nothing to cook for dinner. Brian had left the keys to the ‘vette on the counter for you with a note that said,  
  
 _Have a good day, Sunshine.  
I’ll see you tonight.   
Naked._   
  
You drove to the grocery store with the radio blaring some obnoxious music that reminded you of the city.  
  
*********************  
 _now I've been happy lately  
thinking about the good things to come_   
  
The grocery stores on the edge of West Virginia were nothing like the grocery stores in New York City. They were excessively bright and not at all busy. You took your time shopping, trying to remember what Brian liked to eat, what Brian wouldn’t eat, and ended up with a cart full of fruits, vegetables, the makings of a mammoth salad, chicken, wine, and beer.   
  
You spent the rest of the day looking for recipes on line that you thought Brian would like and then made dinner for the two of you consisting of salad, vegetables, chicken, and some fresh fruit for dessert. Granted, you weren’t Martha Stewart, but you figured that your considerable skill in the bedroom more than made up for your lack thereof in the kitchen.   
  
Brian came home on time, and you prided yourself on the fact that you hadn’t called him sixty-five times that day. In fact, you’d called him only once to ask him how to get to a grocery store in the first place. He wanted to know what you did all day, and you told him about your noise-polluting adventure to get the groceries, and he laughed and said that even though he didn’t know what to call what he was eating, it was really good.  
  
“It’s just a chicken thing,” you said. “Found it on the ‘net.”  
  
He molested you the entire time you were trying to wash the dishes and put everything away, badgering you about why you wouldn’t just use the dishwasher. You didn’t want to tell him that it was because you’d never seen a dishwasher like that before, and you couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. You tried once and it spoke to you, “ _I’m sorry, I don’t know what action you’d like me to perform.”_  
  
As far as you’d ever known, dishwashers only did one thing, so you answered it, “I want you to wash the dishes.” But It just sat there, doing nothing and saying nothing, so you kicked it and told it to fuck off, refusing to speak to it for the rest of the day.  
  
So, while you were scrubbing pots and pans by hand, Brian whispered in your ear that he had a surprise for you and eventually led you upstairs to what was your very own studio. Your mouth fell open when you walked into the room, and when he stripped you and cuffed you to your brand new table, you remembered exactly why it was that you loved Brian—nothing with him was _ever_ boring or unsatisfying.  
  
*********************  
 _lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight_   
  
You surprised Brian at his office the next morning, and spent your first Friday afternoon home at the loft with him, making love, snoozing, and having a fabulous lunch from Brian’s own personal restaurant. You weren’t sure if the fact that Brian owned a restaurant meant that you shouldn’t worry about improving in the kitchen or that you’d better take a cooking class immediately.   
  
After you’d come, slept, and eaten with him, he had to go back to work for some accounting-crap meeting with Ted, ‘revising first quarter projections, blah, blah, blah, whatever.’ He kissed you goodbye in front of the office and popped you in the ass when you turned to walk to back to the ‘vette. You drove home listening to some weird CD you’d found in the home theater room amongst Brian’s overflowing collection of music and DVDs. It was basically just song after song about fucking, and you started to wonder if he’d accidentally bought the soundtrack to a porn movie or something.  
  
When you got home, you sat in bed with a bottle of wine and your laptop and checked your email for the first time since you’d gotten back. There were messages from Daniel and Harper, one from your Mom, one from Brian that he’d sent before you’d gotten home telling you to have a safe trip, that he couldn’t wait to see you, one from some freak trying to sell you ‘VIAGRAH,’ and six emails from the refrigerator.  
  
 _The refrigerator._  
  
When you opened the first one, there was a list of things that it apparently needed or a wish list or something:  
  
 _3.8 ounces of butter or margarine  
1.6 quarts of orange juice  
4 bananas  
7 grade A extra-large eggs_  
  
When you opened the other five, they were all exactly the same, all sent to you in four hour increments of one another, beginning yesterday:  
  
 _Skim milk, expired._  
  
 _Skim milk, expired._  
  
 _Skim milk, expired._  
  
 _Skim milk, expired._  
  
 _Skim milk, expired._  
  
You replied to the final milk expiring email:  
  
 _No, it isn’t. I just bought it yesterday._  
  
And then you paused before you hit ‘send’ and added:  
  
 _But thank you for your concern._  
  
Then you looked at the bottle of wine you’d brought to bed from Brian’s wine cellar just to make sure you hadn’t accidentally picked up a bottle of vodka by mistake. You started to answer Harper’s email, when the one you sent to the refrigerator bounced. You opened it:  
  
 _Please do not reply to this address._  
  
You thought about going downstairs to personally tell the refrigerator that it could go fuck the dishwasher, but, admittedly, you were kind of afraid, feeling like the two of them were the top rung of a Kitchen Appliance Mafia that had a contract out on you for invading their space. So, you called Brian instead.   
  
On his cell.   
  
Knowing full well that he was in a closed-door meeting with Ted saving the world or something.  
  
He answered as if in a panic, “ _Justin? What’s wrong?”_  
  
You became immediately paranoid, “Why do you think there’s something wrong?”  
  
“ _Because I told you about my meeting this afternoon, and you said you’d only call if it was an emergency.”_  
  
Yeah, well, whatever, it kind of was an emergency. Somehow on your way home you’d accidentally driven into the _Twilight Zone._   
  
“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry.”  
  
“ _You sound upset.”_  
  
……  
  
“ _Justin? Say something.”_  
  
“Brian, why is the refrigerator emailing me?”  
  
You heard Brian breathe a sigh of relief, “ _Because you’re home all day, so there’s no need for it to email me anymore.”_  
  
Somehow that didn’t really answer your question, so you tried a different angle, “It’s telling me that the milk is expired, and the milk isn’t expired because I just bought it yesterday.”  
  
“ _That’s because you didn’t reset the expiration date when you got the new milk.”_  
  
“And that it needs, and I quote, ‘3.8 ounces of butter or margarine, 1.6 quarts of orange juice, 4 bananas, and 7 grade A extra-large eggs.’”  
  
“ _That’s because we have .2 ounces of butter, .4 quarts of orange juice, 2 bananas, and 5 eggs left in the refrigerator and those are high priority items.”_  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“ _You won’t receive emails about anything other than high priority items, unless you want to.”_  
  
That terrified you, “No, no, I don’t want to.”  
  
“ _Okay. That’s fine.”_  
  
……  
  
“ _Justin, are you there?”_  
  
“I don’t like this. Somehow the refrigerator emailing me is making me feel violated.”  
  
“ _Well, we can have therapy-time with you and the fridge when I get home. I need to get back to my meeting.”_  
  
“Fine.”  
  
……  
  
Silence.  
  
……  
  
“Go back to your meeting.”  
  
“ _Justin.”_  
  
“See you later. Bye.” You hung up and finished of the entire bottle of wine.  
  
*********************  
 _dear, I fear we’re facing a problem_   
  
When Brian got home for the first Friday night of your rekindled relationship, you were still upstairs in your bedroom, still in front of your laptop, still trying to compose a response to the refrigerator that accurately reflected your true feelings. Brian sat down beside you on the bed, his eyebrow going up very, very high when he saw the empty bottle of wine you drank.  
  
“That was a five thousand dollar bottle of wine.”  
  
“Well, it was very good,” you told him, refusing to look at him. You knew how much that wine cost because you looked it up on the internet after you drank it.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked you, putting his hand on your upper thigh. It felt like some sort of conciliatory gesture.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Let me see,” he said, turning your laptop a little and trying not to laugh as he read aloud what was on the screen:  
  
“ _Dear Mr./Ms. Refrigerator,  
  
“I guess I should introduce myself to you since you and I will be living in this house together. My name is Justin, and I’m Brian’s, well, you probably call him ‘Mr. Kinney,’ but anyway, I’m Mr. Kinney’s partner. You may address me as Mr. Taylor._  
  
“You’re a little drunk, aren’t you, Mr. Taylor?” Brian asked, before continuing. You didn’t answer him; it was clearly a rhetorical question.  
  
“ _It is my personal preference not to receive emails from you because although I don’t hold a degree of any sort, I am intelligent enough to make my own grocery list. Therefore, I would appreciate it if you would cease emailing me immediately. I do realize that it’s 2011, but you are still just a machine and should not have regular correspondence with humans without their consent.  
  
“Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.  
  
“Sincerely,  
  
“Mr. J. Taylor  
  
“P.S. You probably are not aware of this because you’re a refrigerator, but it is considered very poor email etiquette to email someone from an address they cannot reply to. Thank you, and I look forward to an amicable relationship in the future.  
  
“cc: dishwasher@kinneyhousehold.com_”  
  
Brian closed your laptop and moved it to the end of the bed, doing a shitty job of hiding the grin on his face.  
  
“Don’t laugh at me,” you told him.   
  
“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, jerking on his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.   
  
You laid back on the bed as he undid his pants, tossing his belt on the floor, “Yes, you are.” Brian’s body felt nice on top of yours and he shed your t-shirt immediately. You drew little circles around his nipples with the tips of your fingers, trying not to look at him, “I want to be mad.”  
  
“I can tell.” He stopped your hand and planted it back on your pillow next to your head, “It makes me want to fuck the shit out of you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, what doesn’t?” you asked, feeling your frustration dissolve away, despite your best efforts to hold onto it.  
  
Brian’s mouth was behind your ear talking to you in that tone that always went straight to your dick, “I was going to take you out to dinner tonight, someplace really nice, but you’re trashed, so I guess we’re staying home.”  
  
“I had to get trashed; I was under a lot of… domestic pressure.”  
  
“You were bored and horny.”  
  
“Same thing.”  
  
…..  
  
Somehow in the course of that conversation with Brian, he’d managed to take your pants off. You didn’t notice this until he started kissing his way down your chest. When he started talking again, your entire body vibrated with the timbre of his voice, “I had a nice time with you at the loft today, Sunshine.”  
  
You smiled, running your hand down your stomach and underneath your hardening cock, pushing it into his face, “So did I. Guess everybody knows I’m back now, don’t they?” You laughed when Brian’s nose ran the over the top of your leg and started heading south.  
  
“Theodore asked me fourteen times where you got those walnuts because you wouldn’t let him have one.”  
  
“They were our nuptial walnuts. Too bad, Ted.”  
  
“Now, I’m going to have to give him some for Christmas or something. See what you started?”  
  
“I didn’t start it. You’re the one who—" And then Brian’s tongue was invading the Land of the Candied Walnuts, and you didn’t want to talk anymore. You sunk back into the pillows, content with the thought that you weren’t going out, that Brian was having _you_ for dinner. Besides, you were pretty much the only thing Brian _would_ eat after seven. When he began to roam back up your body, you put your hands around his neck and told him, “I’m very, very relaxed. I wanna _rehearse.”_  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _I can't care 'bout anything but you_   
  
“You little drama queen,” you said before you kissed him.  
  
“Please,” he added, opening the lube. Justin took your hand, emptying a decent amount into your palm and closed it again, tossing it somewhere in the sheets. You rolled to your side a little, cradling him in your arm, your leg laying over one of his. There was nothing more goddamn wonderful than having your slick hand between his legs.  
  
As you increased the width of your hand inside him, his eyes opened a little wider, and he just stared at you, his hand seemingly stuck to the side of your face. He was more relaxed than he’d been the night before, no indication of anything but ecstasy until your knuckles pressed against him. His legs were spread wide on your dark sheets, his blue eyes accentuated by the blue of the bedding. You stopped when you felt any resistance, talking to him, soothing him, “S’okay. I’m not going any farther.”   
  
“I’m sorry I got mad about the refrigerator,” he said quietly as he kept staring at your face. “That I called you during your meeting.”  
  
“It’s okay. I’m going to have a long talk with that refrigerator.”   
  
“Don’t, because then it’ll know I ratted it out.”  
  
You smiled, “Then I’ll just drop a hint to the dishwasher, and let him break it to the fridge.”   
  
He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, his fingers were sliding down his chest. When they wrapped around his dick, he arched his back, pushing into your hand, “Want to come.”  
  
“Okay,” you whispered, watching him touch himself, his free foot pressing hard into the mattress. You curled your fingers a little inside him and just that little bit of movement made him moan and come at the same time.   
  
“ _Oh god, Brian,”_ and he relaxed again, sinking back into the sheets.  
  
“You’re getting there,” you told him, and he smiled, curling against you as you held him. “How did it feel? Going a little farther?”  
  
“Unbelievable. It’s like every bit of my body is under your control; it’s a really wicked feeling.” And then he wrapped his arm around you, burying his face in your chest, “I know it’s early, but I’m sort of sleepy…I’m just gonna sleep for a minute.”  
  
You glanced at the empty five thousand dollar bottle of wine and then back at him as he was falling asleep, and decided that it was worth every penny.  
  
*********************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _my boyfriend’s back_   
  
You spent most of Saturday morning on the telephone with every single person you’d ever known in or around Liberty Avenue welcoming you back, and after lunch, you and Brian stopped answering the phone altogether, promising to meet anyone who was interested at Babylon that night. You spent the afternoon ‘rehearsing,’ the evening at dinner at a steakhouse in Pittsburgh, and then adjourned to Babylon where you quickly found out that Brian didn’t fuck in the backroom anymore, that he conducted all carnal matters upstairs in his private lounge. For anyone but Brian, that would’ve seemed so sleazy, but somehow Brian made his personalized mixture of wealth and promiscuity seem elegant.  
  
You learned quickly that it was impossible for Brian to walk into Babylon without having to handle business of some sort since it was his club, so you danced with him for a while and then parked yourself at the bar while he went upstairs and made a few phone calls. Babylon was a different place than you remembered it; Brian’s reconstruction after the bombing gave it the feel of being much more upscale, although in true Brian Kinney fashion, the backroom was just as raunchy when you walked through it for old time’s sake. You were hit on four times, but you just smiled and kept walking. Mostly what seemed really different was the guy tending bar. When you and Brian arrived at the club that night, Brian had introduced you to Ruben as the manager of the club and also the head bartender.  
  
“By choice,” Ruben added. “I’m the head bartender by choice.”  
  
You smiled and tried to shake his hand, but you couldn’t because there was a yo-yo in it. Ruben was so unbelievably different from The Sap that you were sort of fascinated just watching him, plus he barely ever looked at you but always managed to keep a fresh drink in front of you. He reminded you of a magician. At one point during the twenty or so minutes Brian was upstairs, the DJ started playing _Tequila!_ and everyone practically rushed the bar. Ruben had the entire bar lined with shots within less than a minute and was refilling them as fast as the boys could drink them _while juggling._  
  
Even after six years in the city, you’d never seen anything like it.   
  
Brian suddenly appeared on the catwalk, and Ruben tapped you on the arm and pointed upstairs, “Boss wants you.”  
  
Brian motioned for you to come up, and you walked up the stairs and stood with him for a minute watching Ruben and his amazing flying bottles of liquor. “He’s amazing, Brian. He’s not a bartender; he’s a street performer.”  
  
“He belongs in a carnival, trust me, but he brings in cash like a whore on Sunday.”  
  
“Wow. Did you hire him because he can juggle?”  
  
Brian laughed, “No, it’s just a nice perk. Come on.” He pulled you into his office/lounge and shut the door, sitting down at his computer for a minute to fiddle with something.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Disabling the security cameras in here because I’m gonna fuck you.”   
  
Less than three minutes later, you realized the previous statement was foreplay.  
  
“Oh—" and he was pressing you against the burgundy-colored walls, his thumbs slipping inside your waistband and tugging your pants right below your ass. He pushed into you hard and fucked you the way he used to fuck you when you first met, the entire experience straight and to the point. When he came, he leaned against you, resting his head on your shoulder, and you turned your head a little and kissed him on the cheek, his hands covering yours on the wall. “Brian, these walls are a really pretty color,” you said, “Gives the whole room this regal look to it.”  
  
“Only fags would fuck and then comment on the décor.”  
  
You laughed, “Sorry.”  
  
“That’s okay; I really like the color, too.” You heard a roar from the crowd outside Brian’s door and asked him what was going on, “Ruben’s probably standing on the bar having a hacky sack contest with himself.”  
  
“When you introduced me to him, I tried to shake his hand, but he had a yo-yo in it.”  
  
Brian laughed, pulling your pants back up, “You should see him in our meetings. He brings a slinky. He always has something in his hand that he’s fiddling with. It drives Theodore fucking bananas.”  
  
“Maybe he has ADD.”  
  
“I don’t care what he has as long as he makes me money, and he does, hand over fist.”  
  
You turned around in his arms, and pulled him down so you could kiss him, “Speaking of hand over fist…”  
  
“Good lord, all the world’s a stage for you, isn’t it? Rehearse. Rehearse. Rehearse.”  
  
“Take me home. I don’t want to miss my curtain call.”  
  
Brian took your hand and led you down the catwalk, “I think I’ve created a diva.” As you walked out, a hacky sack came zooming at both of you and Brian reached up, caught it right on cue, and threw it back to Ruben.   
  
“Whoa. That scared me.”  
  
“He does that every time I leave. It’s a tradition.” Driving home, you asked Brian if Ruben was gay because you didn’t get much of a vibe off of him. Brian smiled and laughed and said, “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he is, he doesn’t dip the dill at the club. When he first started working for me, Theodore and I had a pool going on it, but we never got any indication either way, so we donated it to a charity and gave up. If you think you can figure it out, knock yourself out.”  
  
“Maybe you can get Ruben to teach you how to juggle because you’re not very good.”  
  
Brian laughed and said, “You haven’t seen me juggle in eleven years. For all you know, I’m a pro now.”  
  
“Ha, I doubt it.”  
  
“Well, let’s see; I run four businesses with almost two hundred employees, have two homes, two cars, a son in another country, and a partner who calls me at work because he feels violated by the refrigerator. I think I juggle quite well.”  
  
“Okay, fine. You win.”  
  
*********************  
 _all my plans depend on you_   
  
On Sunday, the thirteenth of February, you went to one of those warehouse grocery stores and took Brian’s car—while he was in the bathroom. When it asked you for your destination, you told it to fuck off. Apparently that pissed the car off, and it kept asking all the way to the store. If the car hadn’t been full of cases of cereal and condoms on the way back, you would’ve left it on the side of the road and told Brian that the car left him for some other car, it so clearly needed a companion.   
  
You hadn’t gone to the warehouse store just to buy Cheerios and condoms, but they really didn’t have everything you needed, and the prices were so good, you felt like you had to buy something. So, you bought a shit load of two things that you knew you’d go through like gangbusters. Needless to say, Brian was not impressed. When you suggested to him that maybe he should take the car out to dinner for Valentine’s Day the next day, he followed you upstairs and fucked you.  
  
Twice.  
  
Monday was Valentine’s Day and Brian said nothing about it all day. Not when he fucked you before work. Not when you called him in the middle of the day to ask him what he wanted for dinner. Not when he got home and the two of you were eating said dinner. The movers had arrived that morning, and you spent most of the day unpacking your stuff in your studio. While you were cleaning up after dinner, you told yourself that Brian detests holidays in general, and you shouldn’t take it personally.  
  
After dinner, Brian helped you unpack some of the heavier things in your studio and arrange the furniture the way you wanted it. Then he announced that he had to piss, but didn’t return for over half an hour. So, after wandering around looking for him and coming up empty handed, you decided to test out the intercom system in the house and paged him, “Brian, where are you?”  
  
He buzzed back after about fifteen seconds, “Downstairs.”  
  
The only ‘downstairs’ when you were on the first floor was the basement, so you opened the door to the top of the stairs and called, “You’re down here?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
The stairs to the basement were steep, and you balanced by putting your hand on the wall as you went down. When you got to the bottom, you followed the only light you could see—in the wine cellar.  
  
Brian was waiting for you with a glass of wine in his hand and when you scanned the room to see where the bottle was, you saw it, on top of a barrel next to another wine glass and a small red box with a white bow. You gave Brian a curious look as he handed you the glass of wine and started to pour another one, “What’s going on?”   
  
Still in his work clothes, Brian looked a little overdressed for the wine cellar. Although you were really glad he didn’t change when he got home because he looked scrumptiously hot in his black dress shirt and his black pants. Suddenly, you felt underdressed for the occasion, whatever occasion this was, glad that your jeans hung long over your sneakers.  
  
“It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile.   
  
“Yes, but—" Brian tapped your glass with his and nodded, indicating that you should go ahead and have some. You tasted it, and, “It’s really good.”  
  
“It should be; it costs about a hundred and fifty.”  
  
“Dollars?” you asked, as it almost dribbled down your chin; you caught it with your finger and put it back in your mouth.  
  
“Thousand,” Brian corrected you.  
  
You started to drink a lot slower.  
  
“What’s in the box?”  
  
“Open it.”  
  
You handed him your wine glass for safekeeping and picked up the tiny box. The lid lifted right off the top, the way they unwrap gifts on soap operas, with the bow still in tact. There was white tissue paper inside and you lifted it, revealing a key.  
  
“What’s this? A key to the wine cellar?”  
  
Brian laughed, “Absolutely not. You’re banned from the wine cellar unless I’m chaperoning you.”  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
“The ‘vette; it’s yours.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me. It’s yours. I don’t need it, and I was going to buy you a car like mine, but clearly, that’s not what you want.”  
  
“Oh my god, but you love that car. You _love_ it.”  
  
“And you.” Brian sat the box down and handed you back your glass of wine. “I figured you should have it because I got a car just like that when I was about your age. If you want, we can go down tomorrow and sign the title over.”  
  
You laughed, “God, I feel so _sexy_ all of a sudden. I love that car…but I didn’t get you anything. Shit.”  
  
“Do you really think there’s anything I need?” Brian asked, looking around at the wine cellar and gesturing upstairs and beyond. “Besides you?”  
  
……  
  
“Brian, I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“Say you’ll blow me.”  
  
You blushed, “Okay, I’ll blow you.”  
  
You started to walk to the stairs, but Brian pulled you back, “No, Sunshine. Right here.”  
  
So that Valentine’s Day and for many more to come (so to speak), you went down in the cellar so you could _go down in the cellar._  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Simon and Garfunkel’s _Homeward Bound_ twice, Jesus Jones’s _Right Here, Right Now_ , Franki Valli’s and the Four Seasons _Oh What a Night_ twice, Peaches and Herb’s _Reunited_ , Michelle Branch’s _The Game of Love_ , Santana’s (featuring Rob Thomas) _Smooth_ , Paul Simon’s _I Am a Rock_ , Harry Connick Jr.’s _Recipe for Making Love_ , ABC’s _The Look of Love_ , Cat Steven’s _Peace Train_ , The Orlean’s _Afternoon Delight_ , The Cardigan’s _Lovefool_ twice, The Angell’s _My Boyfriend’s Back_ , and Art Garfunkel’s _All I Know_.


	18. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 15-Transitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live journal: 12/5/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 15-TRANSITIONS  
  
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
 _why's everybody always pickin' on me?_   
  
_Saturday, January 7, 2009, 8:36 p.m. at Babylon_  
  
If Ruben didn’t stop spinning that goddamn top down the length of the bar, you were going to strangle him with your bare hands. You were convinced, although he always denied it, that his parents were in the circus. But Ruben declared otherwise; his mother, he said, was a school teacher and his father sold life insurance—probably to circus people.  
  
“Give it a rest, Cocktail,” you told him as he was lining up to spin the damn thing again.  
  
“This top is a collector’s item. Did you know that?” And it was coming toward you again. You swore that this time you were going to keep it. “Made by Ohio Art in the sixties.”  
  
“Don’t you have some silly putty you can play with or something?”  
  
“Shit, I forgot it, and it glows in the dark.” Rube moved back behind the bar, retiring the top and putting his _Etch-a-Sketch_ in front of him. You’d never seen anybody work one of those faster than Rube. He turned the knobs furiously for a few seconds and then held it up in front of your face. It read: ‘WHY ARE YOU IN SUCH A BAD MOOD?’  
  
“I told you a minute ago. You weren’t listening.”  
  
“Tell me again,” Rube said, shaking the _Etch-a-Sketch_ and starting a picture of what you thought was a martini. A random boy-toy wandered up to the bar and Ruben switched back into bartender mode, “What can I getcha?”  
  
“Double take.”  
  
“Coming right up.” Ruben pulled a bottle of whiskey out from underneath the bar, “Go ahead; I’m listening. I can do two things at once.”  
  
Ruben could do _twelve_ things at once—on a slow day.  
  
“Ever notice how Boss Man _always_ has me working security on Saturday nights?”  
  
Ruben was back at his _Etch-a-Sketch_ , the martini long gone—shaken, not stirred. He began to sketch a fifth of something. “So ask him for a night off.” Everything was always so simple to him.  
  
“Yeah, right. He’s been on my ass twenty-four seven ever since I boned that girl in his office.”  
  
Ruben stopped sketching and looked at you, “Well, you have to admit that was pretty fucking stupid.”  
  
“It was pretty fucking stupid of you to give him the fucking tape.” You’d been pissed at Rube for two months, and just now got around to telling him.  
  
“What did you want me to do? Wait until he reviewed the tapes himself and found out that way? Fuck, no.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
The phone rang behind the bar and Rube picked it up, flipped it, and answered it, “Babylon.” And then he handed the phone to you, “It’s your brother.”  
  
You took the phone from Rube, “What ‘Cakes?”  
  
“ _Bring me a case of vodka. I’m out.”_  
  
“Yes, Mr. Bossy Boss.” Gabe had become a Brian-Kinney-in-Training as far as you were concerned.  
  
“ _It’s busy here. Just bring it.”_  
  
You sighed as you handed the phone back to Rube, “I’ll be back shortly.”  
  
“See ya.”  
  
……  
  
The décor at Zeal was strange, the lobby and bar sporting a mustard-color wallpaper with dark brown designs that seemed to jump out at you because the furniture and the bar itself were so dark. Every time you looked at it, you thought that if the devil wore paisley, that’s what it would look like. You had a suspicion that Debbie had picked out the wallpaper, but Gabe swore she hadn’t. He told you it was a mutual decision between himself and Brian and that it was one of those wall coverings that looked heinous if you got within six inches of it, but otherwise, blended in really well. You figured you’d just take their word for it.  
  
When you walked in with the liquor, you greeted Ted who was sitting at the bar punching shit in a calculator, “Evening, Point Dexter.”  
  
“Rambo.”  
  
“Where’s Gabe?”  
  
“In his office.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
You sat the case of vodka behind the bar and went to find your little brother. He and the Swizzle Stick were reviewing the reservations for tomorrow night. Gabe took one look at you and said, “’FRESH MEAT?’ Why are you wearing that shirt? Aren’t you working security tonight?”  
  
Emmett pointed his finger at you in that unbelievably faggy way of his, “I think it suits him.”  
  
You thought you _were_ wearing a ‘SECURITY’ shirt; you’d grabbed the wrong one. “Fuck. Now, I’ve got to go home and change. Goddamnit.”  
  
“Perhaps if all of your clothes didn’t look alike,” Gabe suggested, getting that little rush he always gets when you fuck something up. Emmett laughed.  
  
“You coming by the club later?” you asked Gabe.  
  
“Probably. Brian’s gotta eat, right?”  
  
“Yeah, no shit.” Saturday nights had become a routine with you and Gabe lately: you working security at the club and Gabe bringing over dinner for Brian after he closed the restaurant. Brian spent his Saturday nights at the club in his office, instead of on the dance floor. He preferred his flat screen with Technicolor feeds from all of the security cameras. You secretly suspected that he jacked off while watching what was going on in the backroom. “Give me the keys,” you told Gabe, and he tossed his car keys at you. You thanked him and left the two of them to their details.   
  
As you walked out, Ted stopped with a hand on your arm, “Aren’t you working security tonight? You can’t wear—"  
  
“I know that, Einstein. I’m going home to change. Don’t get your boxers in a wad.”  
  
You weren’t really going _home_ per se because you didn’t technically live in Pennsylvania. You were going to Gabe’s; your home away from home. You were a New Yorker, and there was no way in hell you were going to have a permanent address in boring ass Pittsubrgh. No fucking way. The only decent action in this town was in the backroom at Babylon and doing Brian Kinney’s bidding every Saturday was seriously cutting into your slice of that. Kinney paid you a shit load of money and you were practically guaranteed steady work given the age of Kinnetik, a reconstructed club, the Liberty Diner always on it’s last leg, a brand new restaurant, and Kinney’s own personal mansion. It seemed like you were installing something new for Brian at his house every other week.  
  
Admittedly, though, your money went a lot farther in Pittsburgh than it would in the city. You were still a free agent, though, and kept your ‘get out of jail free’ card in your back pocket for the day you’d had enough of being Kinney’s personal handyman.  
  
****************  
 _they have everything for young men to enjoy,  
you can hang out with all the boys_   
  
Babylon was known for having the tightest security of any club on Liberty Avenue and the city for that matter. Kinney always remarked that this was because of the bombing a few years ago, and he made it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that something like that was _never_ going to happen at any establishment of his—ever again.   
  
Working security at Babylon was real work; it wasn’t slacking off, getting wasted, or intimidating troublemakers with your air of authority. It was prevention, plain and simple. Brian expected security to walk through the bathrooms and the backroom every fifteen minutes looking for anything out of the ordinary, especially for underage kids getting drunk or high, or, if they were really young, getting fucked. There was always such a huge crowd to get into Babylon that the doorman couldn’t be the only gate for shit like that. And underage or not, if there was anybody overdosing or passing out, you were to call an ambulance immediately. Brian’s relationships with people in the community finessed the removal of tweaked-out kids, ambulances always pulling behind the back of the club and using sirens only when absolutely necessary.   
  
From his perch in his office, Brian watched everything, and more than once, he’d spot someone who was getting out of control before you did, his voice instructing you to ‘get that guy out of here’ via the microphone in your ear. Once Brian had spotted a guy in the backroom making his own rounds without a raincoat, and had you throw him out. He was a fucking nazi about unprotected sex and STD’s, “ _Nothing will kill a club’s reputation faster than a round of syphilis, trust me.”_  
  
So on Saturday nights, you had your work cut out for you between making rounds, dealing with druggies, and trying to decide who was going to suck your dick when you went on break. Ironically, from his office on high, Brian was doing the exact same thing—just electronically.   
  
And so it went. Gabe would bring Brian dinner, and you were responsible for making sure he had dessert.  
  
****************  
 _the king’s back in the ring_   
  
When you returned to Babylon that night around nine-thirty, the place was already hopping. You paused during your rounds of the backroom to watch some guy being fucked in a sling and were hit on by a cute brunette offering to suck you off. “I don’t get off until I get off,” you told him and he moved on to greener pastures.  
  
Brian arrived at the club that night at his usual time, somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven. He rarely broke that routine, stopping at the bar to chat with Rube, quickly scanning the place for maximum profitability. He wanted things to run smoothly, he said, because the smoother they ran, the more money he’d make. You couldn’t really argue with that; he was right.  
  
Around eleven o’clock, Gabe arrived with Brian’s dinner and Emmett in tow. Emmett quickly peeled off and went to find someone or something that suited his fancy, and Gabe stood at the bar, his containers stacked in front of him. The same question always on his lips,  
  
“Can I go up?” Rube looked down at the monitor under the bar and flipped the view from the backroom to Brian’s office. The camera was on; Brian was on the phone.  
  
“Sure, he’s on the phone.” He handed Gabe two cold beers.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
You watched Gabe take the stairs to the catwalk in what he always seemed to be wearing, khaki pants and a light colored-dress shirt of some sort that made him look like a pansy. Gabe knocked and then disappeared into Brian’s office, closing the door behind him.  
  
****************  
 **GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
 _don we now our gay apparel_   
  
Working for Brian Kinney was a dream come true. He didn’t micro-manage, he paid you extremely well, and he was always completely upfront with you whenever there was an issue. Running your parents’ restaurant was one thing, but you could’ve never gotten this kind of experience or autonomy under them. Babylon and Zeal were doing extremely well, due in large part to Brian’s advertising expertise. He knew exactly how to capitalize on the appeal of both businesses, how to get and keep their names out there, and could do all this without over-exposing. Brian wasn’t interested in over-exposure; he wanted to be known for excellent service—whether that service was an exquisite dining experience or a skilled twink in the backroom.   
  
Or Debbie at the diner.  
  
Believe it or not, working _with_ Debbie was more stressful than working _for_ Brian. You were both very strong willed people with intense family ties who were extremely (some might say, ‘overly’) proud of their lasagna. Basically, you were Italians. And you both took your jobs way too seriously. Trying to give Debbie tips or advice on how to improve something in the diner was like trying to convince Zeek that wearing shirts that said, ‘HERE’S THE BEEF’ with a down arrow pointing to his crotch wasn’t sexy or classy or _appropriate._  
  
The day that Zeek met Debbie is one that you’ll always treasure--Zeek in his ‘HERE’S THE BEEF’ shirt and Debbie in her, ‘VAGINA MONOLOGUE’ shirt. They circled each other in the diner like wild animals sizing up their prey. When you’d suggested that beef and vaginas did sort of go together to break the tension, Debbie cracked a smile, smacked her gum, and patted you on the head with her bracelets clanking in front of her face.  
  
“ _Damn right, I like beef,_ ” she’d said, and you saw a flash of tangible fear on Zeek’s face when he realized that his inappropriate wardrobe might be a come on to someone he _didn’t_ want to fuck. The thought alone boggled his mind, as if it’d never occurred to him before. And then, as if on some silent cue somewhere, Chief Horvath had walked in the door. Debbie kissed him, lipstick everywhere, and announced, “ _Hey, sweetie. I was just talking about you.”_  
  
Carl smiled and then glanced at the two of you, his eyes stopping on Zeek’s shirt, “ _Nice shirt.”_  
  
Zeek glanced outside at Carl’s police car and fled the diner.  
  
The main conflict you had with Debbie also occurred over wardrobe. It wasn’t uncommon for you to go help out at the diner in a pinch or for Debbie to help at Zeal when the diner was slow. Brian expected all of you to work together to get the job done; no one was an island under his employ. During the entire renovation, she’d showed up for work in her rainbow vest every single day. You’d mistakenly assumed that the vest was part of her diner apparel, but at some point over the years, it’d apparently just become part of her skin.   
  
The first night she was actually going to work at Zeal with paying customers, she showed up in it, and did not take kindly to, “Debbie, you’re gonna have to take that off.”  
  
“The fuck I do.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I. I’m the proud mother of a gay son, and I’m not taking it off.”  
  
By the time this incident happened, you’d learned one crucial thing about dealing with Debbie: _Don’t._ Let Brian handle it. So you went into your office and called him, and a few minutes later Debbie’s cell phone rang in her pocket. She had her phone turned up so loud that you could hear every word Brian was saying,  
  
“ _Deb, you can’t wear that vest when we’re open.”_ Debbie glared at you like she was going to twist your balls off, one by one.  
  
“Why the fuck not?” And then work her way up the rest of your body.  
  
“ _Because that vest is a symbol of the Liberty Diner, and I want it to stay that way.”_ Your respect for Brian soared that night because only he could make Debbie fall in line using _branding_ as the reason.  
  
……  
  
“Well, I didn’t think about that.”  
  
“ _Zeal needs to have its own identity.”_  
  
Debbie pondered what Brian was saying before she responded, “Can I wear a button?”  
  
“ _Just one, but nothing with text on it.”_  
  
“Fine, I’ll wear my little rainbow.”  
  
“ _Perfect. Thanks, Deb. You and Gabe make some money tonight.”_  
  
“We will.”  
  
“ _I’ll be there in an hour to see how it’s going.”_  
  
“Okay. We’ll see you in hour.”  
  
That night you realized that you desperately wanted to be Brian Kinney when you grew up.  
  
****************  
 _taking care of business_   
  
Babylon practically reeked with the smell of sweaty boys and beer that night, just like it did every night. And on the few trips you’d ever taken into the backroom, mostly just to see if the rumors were true, the scent of sex seemed to seep into your clothes. If someone bottled that smell and produced it as a cologne, you were quite sure it’d be called _Raunch,_ and that Brian and your brother would wear it proudly every day for the rest of their lives.   
  
You knocked on the door to Brian’s office with the back of your hand, “Brian? It’s Gabe.”  
  
“ _Come on in.”_ When you entered, Brian was on the phone, finishing a conversation with a thoughtful expression on his face, “I miss you, too.”  
  
Brian’s office was basically central command at Babylon. His flat screen was on and divided into four quadrants—the dance floor, the backroom, the bathroom, and the bar. You watched the screen until he got off the phone, not wanting to give the appearance of eavesdropping. You spoke as he hung up, flipping his phone shut and slipping it back in his pocket, “Hey, Brian.”  
  
Brian’s black shirt sleeves were rolled up and a slim, silver case was sitting in front of him on his desk, “Greetings, Gabriel.”   
  
“Oh god, don’t call me that. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”  
  
“Sit down,” Brian said, reaching to take the food from you.  
  
“There’s a fork in there,” you told him as he searched the bag for everything he needed.   
  
“Thanks. Can you tell me who the fuck Julie Warner is?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Julie Warner. Some woman named Julie Warner called me yesterday to let me know that she had a very bad experience at Zeal. Know anything about that?”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Does that mean, ‘shit, yes I know,’ or, ‘shit, no I don’t know?’” he asked you.  
  
You opened the two beers you’d brought up with you, handing one to Brian, “It means, ‘shit, I think I know.’”  
  
“Care to enlighten me?” You didn’t really, but felt you probably didn’t have a choice in the matter. “Don’t like getting calls from pissed off women, Gabe. That’s why I’m a fag.”  
  
You laughed for a second and then got serious again, “It was my fault. I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Brian eyed you, as if he was wondering if he should accept that as an answer, and then decided he would, handing you a slip of paper, “Here’s her name and number. Take care of it.”  
  
“I will. And I apologize; it won’t happen again.”  
  
“So tell me, how’s Emmett doing?”  
  
You were anxious to tell him that Emmett was doing a great job as your new host, better than you’d expected for some reason. The customers adored him, he was always extremely polite (even when being rude), and he was a problem solver. You smiled, “He’s amazing. That guy was born to be in the service industry.”  
  
Hearing your response, Brian almost choked on his food, guzzling his beer to clear his throat, “You have no idea how accurate that statement is.”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“You said a mouthful,” Brian replied, still coughing.  
  
You changed the subject, “When I came in, Rube was building something on the bar with that _Erector Set_ you gave him for Christmas."  
  
“He’s easier to buy for than my son.”  
  
“He’s got about three guys helping him—"  
  
“And he’s selling them liquor like there’s no tomorrow, isn’t he?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, he was a find. There isn’t a club in town that has anybody as charismatic as he is,” Brian said, finishing his beer. _Or as hard working,_ you thought.  
  
“That’s the truth. I wish Damien over at Zeal could put a little more spice in his repertoire.”  
  
Brian threw his empty food containers in the trash can next to his desk, “Damien’s a clock-puncher. Good luck.”  
  
……  
  
You knew instinctively, from having so many of these impromptu meetings with Brian, when they were over. You stood up, smoothing out your pants out of habit. Brian stood, too, walking you to the door, but stopping in front of the flat screen before you got there. He pointed to the bottom left corner of the screen, a shot of a young blond on the dance floor, and said, “That one, right there. That’s the one I want.”  
  
You nodded your head as you opened the door, “I’ll tell him.”  
  
“Tell him to give me about fifteen minutes.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Zeek wasn’t at the bar when you descended the catwalk; he was in the backroom. You’d seen him on the monitor.   
  
Time to get this over with.  
  
****************  
 _I wanna push you around_   
  
You’d been hoping to avoid the backroom altogether that night because there was no way to walk through it without being pawed by some determined top who thought that you should be his next meal. But you held your breath and did it anyway because now you had two missions to accomplish. You located Zeek with his back against a far wall, his eyes closed, his huge hands splayed over the head of some sweaty, shirtless trick who was sucking him off. You stood beside your brother, refusing to lean on the disgusting wall.  
  
Zeek, as if having a sixth sense that someone was watching him, opened one eye and looked at you, “What?”  
  
“Get rid of him,” you said, pointing to the trick with your shoe, your arms folded tightly across your chest.  
  
“Fuck, no. I’m on my lunch break.”  
  
“Get rid of him. I want to talk to you.”  
  
The trick, sensing the adversity brewing between the two of you, let go of Zeek’s cock, made a rude comment, got up, and walked away. You led Zeek out of the backroom, yanking him into the electrical closet through a black door marked, ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.’   
  
There were two guys in there fucking.  
  
“Christ, get the fuck out of here,” Zeek told them, throwing their jeans and them outside the door, and slamming it behind them before he turned and looked at you, a scowl on his face, “What? What the fuck did you blow my blow job for? This better be good.”  
  
“What was the name of that girl you fucked in Brian’s private office?”  
  
The question seemed to disorient your older brother, no doubt because it required group participation from his brain cells. “Fuck, ‘Cakes, I don’t know. ‘Hot piece of ass?’”  
  
“I’m fucking serious, Zeek.”  
  
Zeek rolled his eyes, trying to rally his cranial troops, handing you your car keys as the wheels turned, “Jill? Jane—"  
  
“Julie?”  
  
“Yeah, that was it. _Julie._ ” He repeated her name as if it was conjuring up a wonderful memory. “Very nice piece of ass.”  
  
“Did you tell her she could have a free dinner at Zeal?”  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe.”  
  
“ _Maybe?_ That’s your answer?”  
  
“Yep, that’s my final answer, Regis,” Zeek snarked, his hand moving to the doorknob. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—"  
  
You leaned against the door, arms folding again as they often did when you dealt with your brother, “No, I will not excuse you. She came into Zeal claiming she had a coupon for a complimentary meal, and when Emmett told her that we didn’t have any coupons in circulation at the moment, she called Brian. _And complained.”_ Zeek smiled and tried not to laugh. “It’s _not_ funny, asshole. How would you like it if I went around town fucking up your livelihood every rip stitch?”  
  
“You did, man. You ruined an excellent blow job.”  
  
“Look, I’m gonna tell you this one last time: Don’t do that again. Don’t promise somebody anything that has anything to do with a business that _I’m_ running. This isn’t New York, Zeek, and this isn’t Mama’s restaurant. This is _my_ job and _my_ future and I want you to stop fucking with it.”  
  
“Are you done?” Zeek asked, opening the door for real this time and stepping back onto the dance floor.  
  
“No. See that guy over there? The one in the blue shirt with the blond hair?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Brian wants him.”  
  
Zeek sighed as if he was at the end of his rope, “Well, get out of my way so I can tell the lucky twink that he’s got an audience with the Wizard.”  
  
You turned to leave the club as Zeek was tapping the kid on the shoulder.   
  
“Good night, Gabriel!” Rube shouted from his perch on top of the bar.  
  
You waved to him and smiled as the doorman opened the door for you, glancing back at the catwalk to be sure Zeek had done his job. Blond hair, blue shirt was almost at the top of the stairs. You were pretty sure it’d been fifteen minutes.  
  
“Have a good night, Mr. Zirrolli,” the doorman said, handing you your coat.  
  
“Thanks, you too,” you responded, buttoning up your coat and crunching through old, dirty snow as you walked across the street to your car.  
  
****************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
 _I’m taking what they’re givin’  
‘cause I’m working for a livin’_   
  
_Monday, December 13, 2010  
9:34 a.m., Kinnetik_  
  
Cynthia was still one of the hottest women you’d ever laid eyes on, you’d decided as you walked into Kinnetik that morning. The holiday decorations you’d put up this year looked pretty damn amazing, if you did say so yourself. And Cynthia, the prettiest decoration of all, was about to make your cock jump out of your pants if she didn’t take off that navy blue pantsuit. You watched her walk in and out of Brian’s office, staring at her matching navy heels. You loved the way they clicked on the hard floor when she walked. She could boss you around all day, and you’d just ‘yes, ma’am’ her to death.   
  
Kinney, on the other hand, was another story.  
  
You were mumbling to yourself as you looked over what Brian wanted you to install that day, “Never in my life. I’ve hooked up a ton of shit for this guy, but this bakes the cake.”  
  
“ _Takes_ the cake. You mean ‘ _takes_ the cake.’”  
  
You looked up to see Ted stepping over your tools and parts spread all over the floor, “Thanks, Point Dexter.”  
  
“You’re welcome. Brian, are you ready?” he called as Kinney came around the wall from the conference room. You knew they were meeting about Christmas bonuses because when you work maintenance somewhere, you hear _everything._ People just assume that you’re either deaf or invisible when you’re standing on a ladder.   
  
Brian stood in front of the now dismantled doors of his office, and put his hand on his chin as if he was pondering the vast array of crap all over the floor, “We can’t meet in here. We should go in your office.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
Point Dexter made a dramatic production over stepping over all of your stuff a second time and then disappeared on his way to his office. His shoes clicked when he walked, too, just like Cynthia’s, only not nearly as sexy.   
  
Brian’s hand was still on his chin when he asked you, “You know what you’re doing, right?”  
  
You read from the box, “If you’re asking me if I’ve ever installed _Transition Privacy Doors,_ the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve never even seen anything like this before. But a door’s a door, I suppose.” You could already tell that the hinges weren’t going to line up, so you warned Brian, “I’m gonna be making a lot of noise putting these things up. You might want to relocate until after lunch.”  
  
“Don’t forget to hook up the remote control thing for them.”  
  
“I won’t forget; they won’t work without it.” You started taking down Brian’s existing office doors as he gathered stuff to take to Ted’s office. “Can I ask you why you didn’t just get regular solid doors? If you want privacy, then just have privacy.”  
  
Brian stepped over everything, seven file folders clutched in his hand, “I don’t like doors to begin with. I like big, open spaces. But sometimes I need to have the option of privacy.” He said _option of privacy_ as if it was something only rich fuckers were entitled to and bent down, picking up the remote control and looking at it as he spoke, “This way, I can have transparent doors, slightly shaded, mostly shaded, or dark, depending on my needs at any particular moment.” You wondered what new ‘need’ had surfaced in Kinney’s life to suddenly have to have this done. He slid the bar on the remote up and down, pointing it at doors that weren’t even there. “It’s nifty,” he concluded, sitting the remote back where he’d gotten it from. “Good luck. I have to have my office this afternoon.”  
  
You listened to him as he walked down the hall-- _click, click, click_ \--and then to the of sound Point Dexter’s office door closing with a heavy _thunk._  
  
It took you three and half hours to get those doors up and functional, and when you finally did, you had an audience of three as you demonstrated how they worked—Brian, Ted, and Cynthia.   
  
“Basically, all you have to do is point this remote vaguely near the doors and you can adjust the transparency. There’s a stationary control on the wall, too.”  
  
Cynthia seemed extremely excited, “It’s like those sunglasses that get darker in the sun.”  
  
“Only you control the transparency; it doesn’t happen automatically.”  
  
Point Dexter took the remote out of your hand and tried it, seeing how fast he could get them to go from clear to dark to clear again.   
  
“Don’t break them, Theodore,” Brian chastised him, and then instructed the three of you to go outside his office so he could try it.  
  
So the three of you stood on the opposite side of Brian’s doors and watched as he darkened them, until eventually you couldn’t see him anymore.  
  
“ _How many fingers am I holding up?”_ Brian called from the other side.  
  
Ted answered, as if he was the teacher’s pet, “We have absolutely no idea.”  
  
The three of you heard Brian say, “ _Perfect.”_  
  
You began to pack up your tools and all of your materials scattered all over the floor as Cynthia tilted her head towards Ted shoulder, “But we can sure as hell still hear him, can’t we?”  
  
The two of them shared a laugh as they parted to go their separate ways, two sets of heels echoing in the hallway.  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from The Coaster’s _Charlie Brown_ , The Village People’s _Y.M.C.A._ , Lou Bega’s _Can I Tico Tico You?_ , _Deck the Halls_ , Author Unknown, Bachman Turner Overdrive’s _Taking Care of Business_ , Matchbox Twenty’s _Push_ , and Huey Lewis’s _Workin’ for a Livin’_.


	19. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 16-Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 12/21/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 16- INVITATION  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
_our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime_  
  
There’s a picture in the back of your mind that seems to come forward when you awake from a sound sleep. The image makes you feel good, feel safe, feel _wanted._  
  
It’s Brian.  
  
Standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with his arms outstretched, waiting for you. And there’s something about that image that feels so right, so justified, because you can remember waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for him—  
  
to acknowledge you,  
  
to care about you,  
  
to admit that what happened between the sheets and against the wall meant something to him.  
  
And when you see him standing there, a patch of blue in a sea of people, you can feel that push inside you to get to him, to ignore the fact that your view of him is blocked every few seconds by innocent bystanders, to believe that he’s waiting for you. And your walk down that street that day became more than a memory.  
  
It became a promise.  
  
It was important for you to walk down that street that day, to be able to get to him, but it was crucial for him to be there for you, to find a way to begin to undo the damage he felt he’d done. You knew that you were walking for both of you.  
  
Your life in New York felt like that walk, only longer, and admittedly with less visibility. There were times when you couldn’t see him anywhere in front of you, and it was too heartbreaking for both of you to look back over your shoulder. But there were other times when you could sense him almost everywhere—  
  
on the dance floor in a crowded club,  
  
in a businessman hailing a taxi, his briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other,  
  
in bed, on your stomach, his absence weighing as heavily as his body.  
  
And lying in your bed at The Rockford, watching the setting sun cast a violet hue over your room, dulling the décor to where it was almost bearable, you remembered what it was like all those years ago trying to reconcile the physical attraction Brian had for you with his treasured emotional apathy. How it hurt when Brian made it clear that he cared about his career more than you; how you panicked when you imagined never seeing him again—  
  
never touching him again,  
  
never kissing him again,  
  
never knowing the answer to the only question that you needed answered.  
  
And you remembered sitting in your room, making yourself come to terms with it, making the pain stop, only to learn that he wasn’t going to New York. He wasn’t going anywhere. At the time, you thought you hardened yourself for nothing.  
  
But it wasn’t for nothing.  
  
It was for the night of the prom and weeks later when you’d emerged from a coma only to realize that he was gone. He’d stayed behind and left you anyway.  
  
Only Brian could make things that didn’t make sense on the surface somehow seem logical.  
  
Expected.  
  
And even though you couldn’t remember that night, couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him, there was some sort of irrational strength instilled in you, simmering below the surface, screaming to be heard: _Wake up._  
  
In those first few seconds, you didn’t know what’d happened to you, only that it must’ve been worse that not setting the alarm that time because this time he wasn’t there to rescue you. Whatever you’d done, you’d massively fucked up.  
  
And then they told you, one after the other—your mom, Daphne, Debbie, even Molly (whose version became more sensationalized every time she repeated it)—“ _You were in your tuxedo and you were dancing with him and everyone was staring ‘cause they didn’t like it and then you went outside and he followed you—"  
  
“Who followed me?”  
  
“CHRIS HOBBS! He followed you and then he—"_  
  
And your mother, ushering Molly out of the room, “ _Molly, that’s enough. Go find your father.”  
  
“But—"  
  
“Molly, did you hear me?_ " And you watched the back of her head as it disappeared out the door of your room, her hair in braids, her feet falling in step for a dramatic stomping exit to prove her point.  
  
……  
  
_“Mom, where’s Brian?”  
  
“Justin.”  
  
“Where is he? Did he hit him, too? Is he hurt?”_ It was the first fear you’d felt related to the present.  
  
“ _No, no sweetheart. He’s not hurt.”_ And she brushed imaginary hair off your forehead. “ _Nothing happened to Brian.”_  
  
And you implored her, only just realizing what little power you had from your hospital bed, “ _Can you find him? Can you tell him I have to talk to him?”  
  
“Sweetheart.”  
  
“Mom.”  
  
“Just rest. You need to rest.”  
  
No I don’t,_ you thought. Your mother is a shitty liar.  
  
You didn’t need to rest, you needed to perform for the doctors and the therapists, for anybody who had any say over when you got out of that place and could find him and make sure…  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Justin?” In the back of your mind, you knew Brian was awake, you knew his hand was moving down the far side of your body. “Justin?”  
  
“You’re awake.”  
  
“Your heart is racing.”  
  
His head was still laying on your chest. “Do you still feel sick?” you asked him.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You got sick before. Do you feel better?”  
  
He answered after a few seconds, as if he was thinking about his answer, “Yeah… I mean, no. No, I don’t feel sick. I feel better.”  
  
“Good,” you said, running your hand down his back. Brian tilted his head on your chest a little so he could see out the window, and the two of you quietly watched the sun set behind a mountain.  
  
……  
  
Your hand moved to the back of his head as you felt his lips on your chest, and then you smiled in the newly-arrived darkness as you felt the weight of his body shifting on top of you. You raised your legs seconds before he was pushing you to do so, the feeling of him lining up a warm comfort; he kissed you as he slid inside you, so little effort required.  
  
And then he was moaning softly, his face buried in your neck, your arms wrapped around him and skimming down his back, pressing on his ass.  
  
He rocked slowly on top of you, his palm pushing your thigh to better his angle, that same leg ultimately resting on his shoulder. He was looking at you then, and you could feel him smiling in the darkness.  
  
His rhythm broke a few minutes later when you came, his hips stopping for a second almost out of some kind of proper respect for your orgasm. They began again when he heard you sigh, when the show became his.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“That was nice,” you whispered in his ear as he lay on top of you after he came, his hair soft against your face. “Stay. Inside me.”  
  
Being seduced by a man as unbelievably beautiful as Brian Kinney was going to be a very nice way to spend a lifetime.  
  
***********************  
_in the instant that you love someone  
in the second that the hammer hits  
reality runs up your spine  
and the pieces finally fit_  
  
It was Friday, February 18, 2011, a little after five o’clock in the evening, the second day of your spontaneous honeymoon. There’d never really been anything predictable about Brian (with the exception of his unpredictability), so it didn’t really surprise you that you were in the middle of a cozy ski resort in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire smiling because Brian was still inside you. That being said, your first week back had been quite a whirlwind. Things would settle down soon, you hoped, anxious to get into your studio and feel that rush of creativity that pulses through your body when you work.  
  
Part of the pleasure of being back with Brian in body and not just in spirit was the way he never doubted himself. Perhaps that was the most compelling reason that you had to track him down after you’d been bashed. It was almost as if registering _his_ reaction to all of it would help you get a handle on yours. After all, you’d watched him like a hawk since the first night you met him, a roller coaster of ever-changing circumstances threatening to derail your evening, yet you knew that somehow he would work everything out. He could pick up a boy pretending to be a man and contemplate what it meant to be a father all while threatening to jump off a building in the process.  
  
Piece of cake.  
  
That first night, you could immediately tell that he was everything to so many people, and one of those people was going to be you.  
  
And you were right.  
  
And patient.  
  
The latter being much more important than the former.  
  
And to say that Brian’s actions confused you would’ve been an understatement. Particularly after your injury, when he was gentle and attentive, different from the Brian you thought you remembered. But as the intimacy increased, Brian’s equal and opposite reaction would surface, toppling the house of cards he was building in your heart. Sometimes it was hard to know what to believe: the pain in your chest when he chose someone else over you or the familiar arms that would reach for you in bed hours later, drawing you right back underneath him, his hands privy to your most personal needs in the darkness.  
  
And on your honeymoon that late afternoon, the only thing better than getting back to the drawing board was lying underneath Brian, his fingers lazily toying with the ends of your hair. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the rough feeling of his face against yours felt like heaven.  
  
“I like it when you don’t shave,” you said to him quietly, your hand running down the side of his face. “It’s sexy.” He smiled and brushed his face against yours before pulling away. It sent a chill all the way through you. “Is it just me, or does it seem really hard to remember what condoms felt like?”  
  
He laughed, “What are these ‘condoms’ you speak of?”  
  
“Exactly.” Your legs had fallen and were wrapped low around Brian’s as you held him, “I want to keep you inside me like this forever.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“And I want you to make love to me every hour on the hour for the rest of my life.”  
  
“You don’t want much,” Brian responded, cupping your face with his palm and kissing you, “But if that’s the sacrifice I have to make, I’ll suffer through it.”  
  
Your head sunk further into your pillow as Brian’s lips touched yours again, and you closed your eyes as he kissed you, your mouth opening when he wanted it to, accepting his tongue as it teased it’s way over yours. You smiled and wrapped your hand around his head as he kissed the side of your face, a wave rolling through you when his tongue reached for your earlobe,  
  
“Sunshine, I have to tell you something.”  
  
“What?” you responded, pulling your face back from his. He sounded so serious. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“I’ve been wanting to tell you this since the night I met you.”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
Brian’s voice was low beside your ear. His breath tickled, but you made yourself lie still and listen to him, “Most people don’t point their toes when they come. Their feet flex.”  
  
You poked his ass with your still-pointed toes, hoping it would leave a bruise, “Yeah, well, I’m unique and special. Deal with it.”  
  
“I think that if you broke your toes, you wouldn’t be able to come at all,” he teased you.  
  
“I’m just glad all those years in the ballet are paying off.”  
  
“I knew that’s what you were doing in the city.”  
  
***********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_and all my instincts  
they return_  
  
Justin was toasty warm underneath you, purring now and then as you kissed him. If you had a life outside of this tacky palace, you couldn’t remember it at all. He seemed to share your temporary disorientation and didn’t miss a beat when you asked him, “What is it I do for a living again?”  
  
(All this money had to come from somewhere, right?)  
  
“You fuck my brains out.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. I remember now.” And you did, and it was a nice memory. “Apparently, it pays well.”  
  
“And you give me really nice stuff with no strings attached.”  
  
“I do?”  
  
“All the time.”  
  
“What was the last thing I gave you?”  
  
……  
  
“A hard time.”  
  
……  
  
You raised your head and your eyebrow and looked at him, “You know, those things are pretty hard to come by.”  
  
“Speak for yourself; I come by them all the time.”  
  
“With pointed toes, no less.”  
  
“Added bonus feature.”  
  
……  
  
“So, what are we going to do tonight?” Justin asked you, the subject shifting as easily as you slipped into his ass twenty minutes ago, his hand running aimlessly up and down your back.  
  
“Um, I think we just did it.”  
  
“That was just a teaser.”  
  
You worried for a moment that keeping Justin satisfied for the rest of his life was going to kill you.  
  
……  
  
But then again, what a way to go.  
  
……  
  
“At some point in this marriage, I’m going to have to sit you down and explain the pitfalls of a twelve year age difference.”  
  
His voice changed as he responded, a smooth quality to it that went right to your still-buried dick, reminding you of the night he returned to your office at Vanguard, “I think the benefits far outweigh the disadvantages, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
……  
  
“Now, I’m going to have to fuck you again.”  
  
“Shame on me.”  
  
“Roll over.”  
  
***********************  
**RUBEN DRESSLER’S POV**  
  
_come sail away  
come sail away  
come sail away with me_  
  
_Meanwhile at the same time on a plane bound for Atlantic City…_  
  
Emmett was bouncing in his seat, directly in front of you, clapping his hands together, “I haven’t been on a road trip in _so_ long. This is gonna be so much fun!”  
  
“We’re on a _plane_ , Pixie Stick,” Zeek reminded him.  
  
You’d been sitting beside Zeek, who had the window seat, and behind Emmett and Gabe, who had the other window seat, for half an hour. The plane was finally in the air and you pulled out your travel _Ms. Pac-Man_ and relaxed. She was just about to eat the floating cherries when you looked up and saw Zeek shooting rubber bands at the back of Gabe’s head.  
  
Gabe turned around and looked over his seat, “Cut that out. What are you? Four?” Zeek popped him square between the eyes. “You better be glad they’ve outlawed violence on planes, asshole,” Gabe said as he turned around and sat back down with a _humpfh._  
  
Emmett leaned his head toward Gabe’s shoulder and said quietly, “ _Don’t talk about violence on a plane. They’ll arrest us._ ” Gabe apologized, rubbing his forehead. Emmett looked up just in time to see the flight attendant coming toward the four of you with the drink cart, and announced, “Oh, yes. Beverages!”  
  
Emmett asked for a Cosmo, garnering a knowing look from the flight attendant who apparently thought it was code for, _I’ll meet you in the bathroom in five minutes,_ and Gabe and Zeek ordered whiskey sours. They _were_ brothers after all; they had some things in common.  
  
You ordered a Dr. Pepper after discovering that they were out of Hawaiian Punch and remarked under your breath and to no one in particular that no good bartender ever runs out of _anything._  
  
The cart meandered past after Emmett asked for extra nuts, unwittingly upping in the stakes for the flight attendant, and Zeek stole your straw and started stuffing it with wadded up bits of napkin. You could see where this was going…  
  
You’d lost the fight over who would have to sit next to Zeek after Emmett made everyone draw straws, and you sunk down further in your seat, hoping no one on the plane would notice that his shirt said, ‘ _I’M WITH STUPID.’_ The arrow under the words was pointing out the window and not at you, however, and that brought you a small amount of comfort.  
  
But not nearly as much comfort as your brand new, bright red _Converse_ high tops that you’d gotten on Ebay. They were a steal.  
  
And very snazzy.  
  
The trip to Atlantic City had been rather last minute for you and Zeek, after Zeek learned that his brother and Emmett were going that weekend _on a bonafied, Brian Kinney approved vacation._ The whole concept crawled right up Zeek’s ass and began to fester, so you cashed in two of your many vacation days and agreed to accompany him. Apparently, Gabe and Emmett thought that the respective men of their dreams might be in Atlantic City, so they were on some sort of hybrid-husband hunt that involved winning lots of money.  
  
You were skeptical on both counts.  
  
“Why didn’t Ted want to come?” you asked Emmett as he leaned his seat back and crushed your knees.  
  
“Because he and Blake are basically married.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“That’s just Teddy. I’m sure they’re home in front of the fire listening to Madame Butterfly.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
The truth was that you kind of wanted Ted and Blake to come because Blake was fun. A few months ago, you’d taught him how to do a back flip off the bar at Babylon, and the two of you were having a blast until Ted came in and saw your spontaneous performance and told Blake, “Cut that out; you’re going to break your neck.”  
  
The other truth was, albeit unspoken, that Gabe had sunk into some sort of Valentine’s Day depression that the four of you were determined to get him out of. So you and Zeek were ostensibly tagging along to facilitate the relief of his bad mood which Zeek explained to you Monday night during the Valentine’s Day celebration (such as it was) at Babylon,  
  
“ _Gabe is just like Charlie Brown on Valentine’s Day. He always gets his head stuck in the goddamn mailbox.”  
  
“That’s sad.”  
  
“He just needs to get laid.”  
  
“That’s your answer for everything.”  
  
“That’s because it’s the right answer, Cocktail. Duh.”_  
  
Regardless of how often Gabe and Zeek battled with one another, it was clear, to you anyway, that they couldn’t bear to be away from each other. Zeek had some sort of brotherly obligation to his little brother, and Gabe never seemed worse from wear from the constant attention.  
  
So Emmett sipped his drink in front of you and entertained the four of you with, “I fucked a flight attendant named ‘Dijon’ once. You know, like the mustard.”  
  
Zeek replied, “And I fucked this really hot guy at Meat Hook whose stage name is ‘Miracle Whip.’”  
  
Emmett flipped him off.  
  
“I’m sure you did it with relish,” Gabe mumbled, his gaze fixed on the night sky out his window.  
  
You considered yourself a very good listener, especially when you were doing something else. So you advanced to the next round in _Ms. Pac-Man_ and listened to Gabe describing his ideal man at Emmett’s prodding,  
  
“Come on, Gabe. If you could have any man you wanted.”  
  
Gabe’s description went on for fifteen solid minutes, during which Zeek fell asleep and began to snore.  
  
Your mind wandered to the fact that _Debbie_ was managing Babylon tonight and had talked Ben, her son-in-law, into working security for her. Horvath had offered to work the door, since checking ID was second nature to him. Debbie had wisely turned him down, explaining that his assistance might deter, rather than encourage, patronage. Ted and Blake were probably doing it, the opportunity to turn down people for perhaps even arbitrary reasons coming naturally to Ted. You looked at your watch and figured that in two more hours, every gay man in Pennsylvania would have a condom and a button.  
  
And lipstick on their cheek.  
  
At the end of Gabe’s wish list, Emmett made a sudden revelation about the time he lost his geriatric partner in an airborne bathroom, and the shift seemed to give Gabe some momentary perspective because although he’d never found Mr. Right, he’d certainly never had one die during fornication.  
  
And then Zeek reinforced that concept as if he hadn’t just been asleep for most of that conversation, “See, ‘Cakes, you’ve never fucked anybody to death. Cheer up.”  
  
Emmett patted Gabe on the forearm and he smiled; it was weak but genuine.  
  
***********************  
**EMMETT’S POV**  
  
_I know the feeling we’re trying to forget  
if only for a while_  
  
You knew that Zeek’s not-very-secret goal for this trip was to get Ruben laid come hell or high water. If it meant Ruben having sex with a trained monkey in a little red suit, Zeek would be fine with that as long as it meant that Ruben was either ‘sticking or getting stuck’ as he crudely put it. Ruben’s lack of sexual prowess seemed to leave Zeek unsettled, which was pretty ironic to you, considering Zeek’s prowess made _everyone else_ unsettled. Truth be told, there were times when Zeek made Brian look like a gentleman.  
  
But to each their own.  
  
And although there was never enough leg room for you on any airplane, you were relaxed and enjoying yourself. It felt good to get away for a while. And neither you nor Gabe were worried about the restaurant because Erica was there. Erica Morgan—a legend in her own mind.  
  
Which was why she and Brian got along perfectly.  
  
And why he hired her.  
  
You and Gabe had been begging Brian to add an assistant manager to the soup at Zeal because you were getting busier and busier and bringing someone else on would allow you to focus on the catering side of the business. That was pretty difficult to do when the most frequent seven words out of your mouth six nights a week were, _And how many in your party tonight?_  
  
Brian had escorted Erica into Zeal the day he met her after what couldn’t have been more than an hour long interview. As Gabe gave her the grand tour, you pumped Brian for information on this quick hire. Brian was usually much more thorough in the hiring process. Hell, he _knew_ you, and it took you forever to become a permanent employee.  
  
“ _So, Brian_ ,” you crooned, patting his arm affectionately for some unknown reason, “ _Tell me about this ‘Erica’.”_  
  
“ _She got kicked off The Apprentice the first week last season because she offered her ‘services’ to Trump in exchange for an exemption.”_  
  
Your eyes became bigger than your balls, “ _Oh, my goodness. So, he fired her?”_  
  
“ _Nope, someone else did. She never even got the ‘you’re fired,'”_ Brian said, as if this was the big tragedy in Erica’s young life. She couldn’t have been twenty-five by your estimation.  
  
The two of you glanced in Erica’s direction, and, while doing so, you took note of this brazen young woman. She was wearing a well-tailored, expensive, black pantsuit, stylish heels, and her long, auburn hair shone brighter than Portia de Rossi’s recent color-transformation in those shampoo commercials. And then it sort of hit you as you watched her forward posture as she spoke to Gabe, touching either his arm or his shoulder or brushing his hand while she talked to him. The sound of her laughter was almost symphonic. The girl could work a room.  
  
“ _It’s like she’s your long, lost, little sister, isn’t it, Brian?”_  
  
Brian sighed, as if he couldn’t believe this day had actually come, “ _If I was a woman, I’d be her.”_ And then he slapped you way too hard on the back and bid you farewell.  
  
So Brian’s beloved businesses were in the hands of three capable women that weekend: Debbie, Cynthia, and Erica. You imagined Brian in a giant, black, leather chair talking to them on a squawk box, “ _Good morning, Angels.”  
  
“Good morning, Mr. Kinney.”_  
  
And then you felt a little nauseous.  
  
***********************  
**GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
_my heart is human  
my blood is boiling  
my brain IBM_  
  
You figured that Ruben had switched from _Ms. Pac-Man_ to his electronic, travel Black Jack because he could never get the sound all the way off on that game and you kept hearing, _Tie goes to the dealer. Play again?_ You could hear Styx blasting through his earphones. He had _Mr. Roboto_ on repeat.  
  
On the ride to the airport, you asked Rube if he could count cards, assuming that he could because his mental acuity always amazed you--that and his close friendship with Zeek. You supposed that in God’s own little way, he was striking some cosmic balance.  
  
You’d never known someone who spent so much of their disposable income on dominoes. You’d been to Ruben’s apartment once and were immediately reprimanded when a tap of your foot almost started the roll of about five thousand dominoes on a winding path all throughout the place. You immediately apologized and stepped backwards right into a jack-in-the-box. After that day, you’d just wait outside if the two of you were going to the movies or whatever. His entire place was booby-trapped.  
  
It wasn’t a very well-kept secret around Liberty Avenue, that, each year, Ruben spent most of his week prior to Christmas at Brian’s house setting up train tracks, race tracks or some other must-have toy for Gus. One year, he built a pink and purple play house that doubled as a frame for Jenny’s bed in her room at Brian’s, and word has it that you could hear her squeals of delight Christmas morning all the way from West Virginia to Babylon. He and Gus had had Lego building contests which Ruben had graciously let Gus win by a landslide because, come on, he’s the _boss’s kid._  
  
Working in the restaurant industry on Valentine’s Day was a form of self-imposed cruelty when you’re single. You’d spend your evenings seating couples who were overly affectionate with one another and who seemed like they were only out in public to exploit their romantic inclinations. They drank a lot, always ordered dessert, and the staff made good tips, but those who had no one to fawn over that evening, invariably ended up going home empty-handed, disappointed and with a pocket full of ones.  
  
Your father always believed in taking your mother out on Valentine’s Day, which always left you running the family restaurant. Because your parents spent their lives in that restaurant and worked together day in and day out, your father insisted on taking your mother out at least one day each year to show her how much he appreciated her. And for that one evening, he’d spoil her rotten.  
  
You wanted a man like your father—in some ways.  
  
A man who was motivated by hard work (but not necessarily always stained with spaghetti sauce),  
  
a man who believed in family (but wasn’t afraid to put an unfortunate acquisition like Zeek up for adoption if it came down to it),  
  
a man who loved you and would spoil you rotten (more than one day a year).  
  
And you’d add to your list, if asked:  
  
a man with a closet full of crisp, starched, dress shirts with high dollar stitching and modest cuff links, who wasn’t afraid to let his tailor put a nice, slim cuff in his pants if it was in fashion,  
  
a man who watched _The Discovery Channel_ with the passion of a straight man watching football,  
  
a man who’s library card and credit card battled for the most popular slot in his wallet,  
  
a man who was duly impressed that you could cook for one hundred and fifty, but preferred that you only cook for two—while wearing nothing but an apron,  
  
and who insisted on standing behind you…  
  
…helping you stir.  
  
Those were a _few_ of your favorite things.  
  
And you doubted you’d find any of them in Atlantic City on an improvised vacation with three other men in their middle-thirties. You could see the hill that you were about to be over mocking you in the distance.  
  
As the four of you hit the town in Atlantic City, you had a hunch that Ruben would be the only one getting lucky tonight and probably only because the owner of some casino would offer him a job. As you stepped inside the first one, Ruben went immediately to the Roulette table, declaring that he wanted to take his chances. He’d been fidgety on the last half of the plane ride, his foot routinely tapping the back of Emmett’s seat, and you knew that he just needed to be doing something. The only time Ruben was ever still was when he was asleep, and that in itself was rare. You and Zeek sat down at a Black Jack table and Emmett spun off to go to the bar, declaring, “I think I need to be a little drunk to win anything.”  
  
You and Zeek did all right the first couple of hands, and you could feel your confidence building. Emmett had wandered up and was standing behind you watching, his head turning every time he heard Ruben yell, “ _Score!.”_ A crowd was gathering around Ruben’s table, and you knew he was just getting warmed up. You secretly prayed that he’d stay over there and not bring his winning streak to your table.  
  
Zeek grinned at you the next time the crowd cheered for Rube, and just by his crooked smile, you knew he was holding at seventeen.  
  
You glanced at your hand and then confidently at the dealer, “Hit me.”  
  
***********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_after the lovin’  
I’m still in love with you_  
  
Less than fifteen minutes after you rolled Justin over, his toes pointing again, the two of you were basking in the afterglow of your marathon love making. You’d turned the small light on the nightstand on, thrilled to see that that’s where you’d left your glasses as well, and grabbed the business section of the _New York Times_ that you hadn’t had a chance to finish at lunch. Justin tucked himself under your arm while you read, his warm hand softly rubbing your chest. If it was physically possible for you to be horny again, you would’ve been, but it wasn’t. You were spent.  
  
In that very positive, life-affirming way.  
  
When you first met Justin, you would never sit still and enjoy moments like this, but now that you’d mellowed a little, you began to look forward to them. There was something about Justin lying against you, amorous and affectionate, that was doing wonders for your ego. His fingers were roaming down your stomach as you read, his soft touch around your cock making you read the same damn paragraph over and over.  
  
Finally, you tossed the paper aside, leaning your face down to his, “This isn’t working. I can’t concentrate.”  
  
“Sorry.” But he wasn’t, and unashamedly so. He continued, “Every time you put your glasses on, I want to molest the ever-loving shit out of you. It’s driving me crazy.”  
  
You breathed that smiling sigh that’s only reserved for him, and he took it as an invitation and crawled into your lap, straddling and facing you. You wrapped your arms around him, your hands clasping right above his ass as you asked him, “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? Me, never able to read the damn newspaper?”  
  
He smiled and leaned forward, touching his forehead to yours and then answered, “Yes.”  
  
“Life hard.”  
  
Justin affirmed your statement by sliding his very wet ass over your dick, “ _Yes.”_  
  
“We’re about to fuck again, aren’t we?” _That every hour on the hour thing. He was serious._  
  
He laughed, raising his ass up a little and kissing you, “Yes.”  
  
You ran your hands over his bottom as he took you, squeezing him as you spoke, “Come here.” You pulled him against you and he wrapped his arms around you, his movements slow and barely rhythmic. You ran your fingers through his hair as you held him, your lips lodged in the crook of his neck. “I love you, you little pest.” His response was to moan and relax his legs so that gravity pushed you deeper inside him. “You’re making my glasses fog up.”  
  
“Don’t you dare take them off.”  
  
***********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
_just the two of us_  
  
Time flies when you’re painting and fucking. You’d long lost the battle with Brian and his glasses, and he was lying back in the pillows, running his hand up and down your back as you lay in his arms. His hand was purposely messing up your hair when he said, “I’m surprised you haven’t wanted to sketch today.”  
  
You laughed, glancing around your room, “I’m still searching for the inspiration.”  
  
Brian replied, as if ignoring the fact that you were joking, “There was plenty of that in the city, huh?”  
  
You sighed, “More than you can imagine. It’s such a living, breathing place. It’s never the same place twice.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
  
“Sometimes you’re overwhelmed by the beauty or simplicity of something—the roar of a subway train, a kind gesture from someone you weren’t expecting.” Brian smiled, his finger slowly tracing the outline of your chin. “And then sometimes, you’re inspired by some atrocity—human or man-made, and you have this driving urge to represent it in a way that others will feel what you felt when you witnessed it.”  
  
“The subtle manipulation of human emotion. Perhaps you should work in advertising.”  
  
You shook your head, “No. It’s not about the sale; it’s about the transference.”  
  
Brian’s eyebrow went up ever so slightly, “Ultimately, transference into your bank account.”  
  
You considered his point, although it was probably his turn to be joking, “But the genesis of art isn’t the hope of a sale.” The two of you heard a noise outside your door, and you watched as a small piece of paper was pushed underneath it. “What’s that?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Brian shrugged, “Maybe I have a secret admirer.”  
  
You reluctantly got out of your warm bed to get it and brought the off-white envelope over to him, “It’s addressed to you.”  
  
Brian took it out of your hand and opened it, sliding a matching note card out before handing it back to you, “Here. Read it. All I can make out is ‘Mr. Kinney.’”  
  
You laughed and took it from him, reading it aloud:  
  
  
  
  
  
“Looks like your secret admirer is Sarah Cooper Rockford Melody,” you said, poking fun at him.  
  
Brian grinned at you as you laid the card on the nightstand, “Last one in the shower gets fucked up the ass.”  
  
You were already halfway there.  
  
He never had a chance.  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Styx’s _The Best of Times,_ Elton John’s _The One_ , Peter Gabriel’s _In Your Eyes_ , Styx’s _Come Sail Away, Babe, and Mr. Roboto_ , Engelbert Humperdink’s _After the Lovin’_ , and Bill Wither’s _Just the Two of Us_.


	20. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 17-Fortuity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 12/31/05]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 17- FORTUITY**  
  
**GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
_don’t take your love to town_  
  
The non-smoking room he was fucking you in reeked of cigarettes. He’d seen you, this well-dressed man whose facial hair actually didn’t bother you, playing Black Jack. He was impressed that you were winning, hand after hand. And now, he was scoring.  
  
It was what you came for, after all.  
  
Not really the fuck; it was just being chosen that was giving you the rush you needed to come for him. He was jacking you with purpose, his heavy breathing on the back of your neck getting too hot. You glanced up at yourself in the mirror over the dresser.  
  
_Disgusting._  
  
His hands were too rough for a businessman, and he’d taken you to an _Econo-Lodge._ You were beginning to think you were being fucked by a contradiction. But the clothes were right, the attitude, the air of superiority. You owned the same tie he was wearing.  
  
It wasn’t cheap.  
  
“Why is it taking you so long to come?” he asked you, kissing the back of your neck as if that would speed things along.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Good thing I didn’t rent this room by the hour.”  
  
**********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_he’s so fine,  
gotta make him mine_  
  
Showering with Justin had always cast some sort of emotional amnesty over you, the tender gestures you made safe from the eyes of others, the rush of the water pulling a curtain around both of you. It reminded you of seeing a magician when you were a kid, a curtain able to make anything disappear.  
  
“I love fucking you,” Justin was whispering into your back, his hand still between your legs. “Feel how wet you are,” his fingers teasing outside your hole.  
  
“We’re both wet; we’re in the shower.”  
  
He pinched your ass, “You know, I used to have this fantasy about fucking you in the backroom.”  
  
“That’s the classic definition of a fantasy.”  
  
“But it would never last very long because a part of me could feel how mortified you were, even though it was just a daydream.”  
  
You turned around and pressed his back against the wall of the shower, “I used to have a fantasy about fucking you in a rather non-consensual sort of way.”  
  
“Used to?” A mischievous expression spread over his whole face.  
  
“In the backroom, after you’d been following me around all night, pestering the ever-loving fuck out of me.”  
  
“You loved it.”  
  
He was right. You were so fucking addicted to his adoration of you.  
  
_Are._  
  
You held his face in your hand, letting your thumb trail up and down his cheek, your face barely a few inches from his, “I wanted to push you up against the wall, pull your tight jeans down, and fuck you before you were ready, just to see that wicked look on your face as you fought to enjoy it.” Because back then he would’ve never indicated otherwise, terrified that it’d be the last time you fucked him too hard. Your fingers wrapped around his chin, holding his face where you wanted it, the water running down the wall behind him, “You wanted me so badly.”  
  
His hand snaked up around the back of your head and pulled you to him. You kissed him hard, forcing him on his toes against the wall. His arms broke your hold on his face, pushing them further down his body where he wanted them.  
  
“You want me to fuck you?” you asked him, the rabidity of his kiss driving you crazy.  
  
He said, _”Yes,”_ but it meant _please._  
  
“After dinner,” you told him, breaking away and turning off the water.  
  
**********************  
**GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
_what is so great about sleeping downtown?_  
  
He gave you his card after zipping up his pants and asked you, “What do you do for a living?”  
  
It was none of his business, “I run an orphanage.”  
  
“Really?” he seemed intrigued. “Then this is quite a fortuitous fuck.”  
  
Your forehead wrinkled, “Why?” You couldn’t find your belt. He’d skimmed it out of your pants and thrown it on the floor, some kind of dramatic, cheap foreplay. You found it, the buckle sticking out from under the bed.  
  
“I’m in fund raising.” You glanced at his card,

 

 

  
  
He was standing in the mirror, adjusting his tie and fucking with his hair, “Our research shows that children are the most profitable mechanism for opening people’s wallets.” You wanted to tell him that he was an ass, but, then again, you’d lied about running an orphanage, so you figured that was just as shitty. You’d flipped his card in the trash while he was admiring himself. “In fact, I’m in Atlantic City for a fund raising event.”  
  
“Well, good luck with that,” you said, your hand on the doorknob. You never knew what to say when these things were over. Somehow, ‘that should do me for a while,’ just seemed too crass.  
  
Or too honest.  
  
You stepped out on the balcony and could see Zeek smoking in the parking lot. You shut the door and walked down the two flights of stairs.  
  
“Get your itch scratched?” he asked you, stepping on his cigarette and handing you your coat.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good,” Zeek responded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. “Zip up; it’s colder than an Eskimo’s balls out here.”  
  
“You sound like Mama.”  
  
He huffed, “Yeah, she’d be real proud of you right now. So what was it this time?”  
  
“Director of an orphanage.”  
  
“You fucking slay me, ‘Cakes. You. Slay. Me.”  
  
**********************  
**NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
_I am the living legacy of the leader of the band_  
  
It was common knowledge in the world of athletic apparel that Leo Brown wasn’t aging gracefully. In fact, you’d spent Valentine’s Day at Leo’s side instead of your wife’s, his deteriorating condition demanding it. He knew he was dying, a lifetime of heavy drinking and smoking to blame. You thought you’d been there to reassure him about the future of his company, of his brand, but it was the other way around.  
  
That Monday, he’d informed you that he was leaving his company to you. You had no idea. Seemed Leo’s only dying wish was that his name carry on, knowing that he wouldn’t, and he felt confident that you could do that for him. So, you’d agreed.  
  
Leo had no children and his wife had died over five years ago. His vices had increasingly kept him company since her death, and even before his body began to give out, you could see his spirit giving up. And you knew now that Leo had formally stepped down from running the company that he wouldn’t be long for this world. A man needs his passion to keep him alive.  
  
**********************  
_you had a hold on me right from the start_  
  
You’d met Sarah Cooper, your passion, over thirty-six years ago when you’d ventured away from The Rockford for an evening of entertainment void of your parents and tertiary responsibility. The smoky bar at the bottom of the mountain where you found yourself that night changed names shortly thereafter and was then demolished to make way for a strip mall, so you and Sarah had long since found a new home within the dark walls of The Tavern.  
  
She was on stage the night you met her, wearing a tight black dress with burgundy piping and black heels that you’d only ever seen before in the corners of your sometimes-filthy imagination. She kind of reminded you of Marlo Thomas and, subsequently, of the rather embarrassing crush you’d always had on [_That Girl._](http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a281/plumsuede/marlo-wtree-sm.gif)  
  
You’d always been ashamed of the things you pictured _That Girl_ doing, but one look at Sarah, and you thought you hit the mother load. Somehow imagining Sarah riding you while wearing a little pill-box hat and patent leather pumps (her tiny purse dangling daintily off her arm all the while) didn’t make you feel as compelled to ask for forgiveness. For some reason, every time you thought of Marlo Thomas or Jackie Kennedy that way, you’d wound up in the confessional.  
  
You’d gone there that night to be invisible, to drink at a bar where everyone didn’t know your name or ask you for a refill. But her piano player flew off stage in the middle of her act because his wife was in labor, and Sarah stood on the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, inquiring if there were any other piano players in the house. You raised your hand because you were already halfway drunk, and she walked down the three stairs between the stage and your table and asked if you were serious.  
  
She smelled exactly like what you believed Marlo Thomas smelled like (apparently _Jean Nate_ ) and had the darkest eyelashes you’d ever seen. She was leaning on your table, her hands splayed in front of her, a dark red polish on her nails, “ _You can really play?”  
  
“Yeah, by ear.”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Nate.”  
  
“Well, Nate,”_ she asked, pointing to the stage, “ _What are you waiting for?”_  
  
She sang as you played, and you distinctly remember the song, _Anticipation_ by Carly Simon, because it was exactly what you were feeling.  
  
Much later that evening, you’d invited her back to your ‘room’ at The Rockford, not immediately revealing that you were _Nate_ Rockford. It was late enough that your parents were sound asleep, and the employees that worked nights were more than discreet. A few nodded at you as you led Sarah up the stairs, your penchant for brunettes in strappy heels known to all of them.  
  
You’d bummed a cigarette off of her after you’d fucked her, mesmerized by the way she held it when she smoked. “ _That was the best orgasm I’ve had in weeks, Nate.”  
  
“You rate your orgasms?”_ You were such a literalist back then.  
  
“ _I guess I do,”_ she responded.  
  
You asked her if anyone had ever told her that she looked just like [_That Girl_](http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a281/plumsuede/marlo-wtree-sm.gif), but she thought you said [_Batgirl_](http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a281/plumsuede/batgirlheadshot.jpg) and replied that purple leather wasn’t her first choice, “ _But if it turns you on…”_  
  
And it did.  
  
……  
  
“ _Do you always come like that?”_ you asked after the second fuck, regretting it immediately because you sounded like a complete moron, as if you’d never seen a woman orgasm before in your twenty-three years of life. (She was the third, and the first one you knew was faking it.)  
  
She’d laughed at you, “ _Oh, I always come. I just don’t always come back._”  
  
She was nineteen going on thirty-seven.  
  
**********************  
_we can never know about the things to come_  
  
It’s your job at Brown Athletics to keep everything running smoothly from production to distribution to branding to sales. You pride yourself on your foresight; after all, you’d grown up as a pint-sized manager of the family business, garnering an odd respect from the hotel staff before you were even thirteen.  
  
But you never saw Sarah’s breast cancer coming.  
  
She was young, in her early thirties, and the news hit her hard, sending her self-image down the drain after her mastectomy. Her reconstructive surgery left her as beautiful as ever, but she couldn’t see it. To her, her days of being a desirable woman were over. What followed was a long course of psychotherapy and anti-depressants that took their time but eventually seemed to do the trick. The weight gain that came along with the meds frustrated her as she’d thought she’d fought the last battle with her body for awhile, but support groups and even vacationing cancer survivors helped lift her spirits when your reassuring platitudes were no longer appreciated.  
  
As your wife, Sarah certainly had no need to work for a living, but after the cancer, you searched for something to give her back her self-worth, and decided that she should run The Rockford. You accepted a standing offer with a casual clothing manufacturer nearby as their Director of Marketing in the early eighties, and slowly watched Sarah bounce back. She was more than capable of sustaining the resort; in many ways, due to very low turnover, it almost ran itself. And then, a few years later, you were walking through a brand new clothing store in Chicago discussing floor layout when you bumped into Leo Brown. He was shopping and listening to everything you said. He introduced himself, and the rest, as they say, was history.  
  
Running operations for Brown Athletics pulled you farther away from home, but Sarah was in full bloom in her role at The Rockford. You enjoyed your new job because instead of being bound to The Rockford seven days a week as you’d been for most of your life, you got to travel all over the world. And Sarah found comfort in the guests and audiences of The Rockford, many of whom knew her from her pre- and post-cancer days.  
  
And although you loved your job and the many opportunities it afforded you, there was nothing better than coming home to Sarah on Friday nights. You were able to be with her and unwind at the same time, two things you valued more than anything.  
  
**********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_and wrap my heart 'round your little finger_  
  
Your hands had roamed under Justin’s shirt as you stood behind him in the bathroom while he was trying to dry his hair.  
  
“You’re totally in my way,” he complained, almost smacking you in the head with the hair dryer by accident.  
  
“Don’t care,” and you didn’t, “Your nipples are much more fascinating to me.”  
  
He finally stopped fucking with his hair, unplugged the dryer, laid it down, and covered your hands with his over his shirt. He tilted his head back against you, his lips on your neck. “You’re making me crazy,” he warned.  
  
“ _You’re_ making me crazy. You started it.” Although you were the one who _made_ him put back on the same clothes he’d worn for a couple of hours at lunch because every time you looked at him, your pants got a little tighter. You slid your right hand down his chest and underneath the waist band of his black pants that you’d only let him zip about thirty seconds ago and watched your finger running up and down beside his cock, underneath the fabric, as you told him, “The thing about these pants is that they so sublimely flatter your hot, little ass and your beautiful cock at the same time.”  
  
“Two for the price of one.”  
  
And you wanted to pay that price until you were flat broke.  
  
And then some.  
  
And then he turned around, pulling off the towel wrapped around your waist, “And it’s very hard to concentrate on anything while your dick is pressing against my ass.”  
  
“You could suck it and subsequently alleviate that problem if you’re so inclined.”  
  
“Oh, I’m inclined,” he told you as you bent your head down to his to kiss him. But he bypassed your kiss and whispered in your ear instead, squeezing your cock in his hot hand, “After dinner.”  
  
**********************  
**NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
_these are the good old days_  
  
The Tavern, a commonplace name given to it by patrons of years past, was the darkest eating establishment at The Rockford. The two outer doors were a rich mahogany, majestic in design, with large, vertical, brass pulls measuring about a foot in length. The inside consisted of a solid-oak bar that almost seemed to rise seamlessly out of the floor. The walls of The Tavern were lined with generous booths that surrounded an assortment of variously shaped tables that peppered the rest of the dining area. Your mother and father could never agree on circular or rectangular tables, so you’d ended up with an odd collection of both. The piano on the raised part of the restaurant took up room that could’ve easily been occupied by paying customers, but The Tavern had never been judged by profit margins, standing out instead because of it’s quality menu, wide bar well-suited for anyone to drink their troubles away, and weekend entertainment. In the early evening, when The Tavern opened for business around five o’clock, the doors would be propped open, welcoming any and all until it’s capacity was met. Then the doors would close as the evening began.  
  
When you arrived at The Rockford that night, one of your assistant managers was working the front desk, which meant that Dave had been helping Sarah warm up. Being able to play the piano wasn’t a pre-requisite for management at The Rockford, but it certainly never hurt. And if Sarah had been warming up with Dave, then that meant she’d had a good day, that she was feeling well, and just knowing that made you pick up the pace a little.  
  
You were smiling when you walked inside, the _whoosh_ of the door announcing your entrance, and Sarah immediately turned from where she’d been leaning over the bar, “Welcome home.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“How’s Leo?”  
  
She knew because you’d talked to her on the phone after your first meeting with him that past Monday, discussing Leo’s offer with her. You’d accepted it the next day. You hugged her, told her she looked beautiful, and commented on the fact that she wearing new shoes, “Those are sexy.”  
  
She looked down at her foot and turned her ankle, “Expensive, but worth it. So, how is he?”  
  
“Not good. He’ll go any day now.”  
  
“Shit. I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her hand over your upper arm to soothe you.  
  
You turned around, leaning against the bar, surveying the crowd that was dining at The Tavern that night, “Full house, huh?”  
  
“Oh yeah.”  
  
“Did you give Brian my message?”  
  
She pointed to one of the most private and tallest booths on the lower part of the dining area a few feet from the bar, “He’s right there.”  
  
You didn’t recognize the man who was with him, but assumed that it must be Justin because Brian had mentioned him now and then over the years.  
  
“They look like they’re having a good time,” you remarked, noticing that Brian’s leg was propped on Justin’s side of the booth under the table, as if locking him in. The scent of Sarah’s telltale perfume and shampoo drifted under your nose when she turned her head to follow her gaze, and you took a deep breath and enjoyed it.  
  
Years ago, when Sarah was recovering from her mastectomy, she withdrew into herself, declaring herself done with her performance hobby and began to spend all of her time at her other hobby—art. Sarah dabbled in just about everything, from pottery to painting, and her zeal for the pastime quickly led to sales of her New England-y knick-knacks in the gift shop at The Rockford. For some reason, Sarah latched onto the gnome as her primary subject, and you suspected it had something to do with the lore surrounding their elusive, private qualities. The worse Sarah was feeling, the more gnomes she produced or painted. At times, her attention to her hobby bordered on obsessive, but she was actually turning a profit from the little creatures, so you figured that a profitable obsession was better than melancholy.  
  
As her sales grew, she began to market them outside The Rockford, making a killing during a time when boutique customers would spend money on anything reminding them of their visit to New Hampshire. Her stage name when you met her had been Sarah Melody, and she kept Melody as part of her branding when she branched out into toiletries. What gnomes and toiletries had to do with each other, you had absolutely no idea, but with a resort that had to be stocked daily with lotions, shampoos, soap, and, at Sarah’s insistence, candles, the product line sold itself with pint-sized renditions ending up in every bathroom at The Rockford at cost. As customers paid for their incidentals at the end of their stay, they’d often purchase gift sets of _Moments with Melody_ on their way out, declaring it a fabulous souvenir from their vacation.  
  
“ _It’s not often that you actually like the lotions and soaps in a hotel,”_ customers would remark, usually elderly women with husbands who carried their purses for them, an automatic marital obligation for visitors over sixty. “ _Thank you very much; we’ve had such a wonderful time.”_ Sarah would often sell the actual painting hanging in their room because they’d heard from a friend of a friend that, “ _Those paintings are actually for sale. You must get one, Gladys; it would look perfect over your mantel in the guest room.”_ By the early-nineties, Sarah had a website, and although she’d never top the money you made, she often came damn close.  
  
But your favorite ‘moments with Melody’ were the Friday nights when you returned from a week of wheeling and dealing, to find her dressed in black with her hair down, the top of her tight sweater stopping just above her ass. You were in your early fifties, but the sight of her looking like she did the first night you met her, always sent you back in time to about twenty-five. (Well, that, and a little Viagra before you retired for the evening.) She’d warm up before The Tavern opened, and it wasn’t uncommon for waiting patrons to gather outside the doors just to listen now and then.  
  
She stood at the bar that night, supervising the things that needed supervising, while you sat beside her and ate a quick salad, enjoying a couple glasses of a favorite Riesling. The typical flow of an evening at The Tavern was guests enjoying a full course meal, then a round of after-dinner drinks and desserts, and then, once they were happy, sated, and too full to get up, serving as a captive audience for what a now-deceased regular at The Rockford had always referred to as ‘a modern Sonny and Cher.’  
  
“Did you send them that bottle of wine at their table?” you asked Sarah as you finished your second glass.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Hospitality ran in your blood, and Sarah was kind enough not to point that out every time you reminded her about something she’d already taken care of. ‘I may not have grown up in this place, Nate,’ she’d say to you about once a month, ‘But I know a thing or two about keeping people happy.’ You toyed with the idea of going over and saying hi to Brian and his partner, but they seemed to be involved in deep conversation, and you didn’t want to interrupt.  
  
**********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_I got you babe_  
  
You’d walked hand in hand with Justin down the stairs to The Tavern, attracting a few curious looks from older patrons. It was hard to tell whether they were disgusted with what they saw or thought it was cute. As you reached the last few steps, Justin tugged on your hand, turning you around to face him. Because he was on a higher stair, you were almost the same height, “Brian, I just want you to know that I’m having a really good time.”  
  
“So am I,” you said with a smile.  
  
He leaned forward and against you, his hand wrapping around your neck, “I want you to kiss me.”  
  
You kissed him slowly, enjoying the taste of his minty mouth as he teased you with his tongue, and then confessed, “I can’t wait to get you back in bed and kiss every part of your beautiful body.”  
  
He blushed, no doubt because you were coming on to him in front of people with probably more discretion, “Mmm.”  
  
You tugged his hand, “Let’s go eat. Gotta keep our strength up.”  
  
As you entered The Tavern, holding the enormous door open for him, you were greeted by a hostess who seemed to know exactly who you were, “Mr. Kinney?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Right this way. We have a table reserved for you, sir.”  
  
You couldn’t help but wonder if it was you she recognized or perhaps your more-spirited partner from lunch.  
  
The table she led you to was exceptionally private, part by location (at least six feet from the bar) and part by design. The back of each booth appeared almost striped with a dark wood paneling and was a few inches taller than even you when you sat down. You faced the dining area; Justin took the more private side, facing the bar. The waitress excused herself for a moment after handing you giant, leather-bound menus that once opened, completely obstructed your view of Justin, and his of you.  
  
Moments later, she returned with a bottle of a _2001 Chateau Rieussec Sauternes_ , “Compliments of Mr. Rockford, sir.”  
  
“Is he here?” you inquired, glancing around for a second and not seeing him.  
  
“He’ll be here shortly, sir.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Justin closed his menu after she walked away, “The last time I’ve heard anyone call you ‘sir’ that many times was that night we spent at the Meat Hook way back when.”  
  
If I recall correctly, “That was _you_ calling me ‘sir.’”  
  
“I don’t recall,” he lied, re-opening his menu and immersing himself in it to change the subject. He read the menu for a few minutes, and then glanced up at you, tilting your menu down so he could see your face, “You’ve got the hottest spouse in this whole place. No one here even holds a candle to me.”  
  
“I believe you mean, ‘I’ve got the hottest spouse in this whole place, _sir’_.” He laughed. “And don’t look now, but that gnome to your right _is_ holding a candle to you.” He rolled his eyes at you as you continued, “In fact, perhaps they’re all holding a candle to you because they think you’re their leader. It’s a vigil.”  
  
“I’m not that short.”  
  
“You are when you’re on your knees.”  
  
He reached over with his menu and smacked you the top of the head with a smile, “Cut it out.”  
  
“I believe you mean, ‘cut it out, _sir._ ’”  
  
……  
  
“By the way, Brian, did you happen to see that _Gnome of the Month_ calendar in the window of the gift shop?”  
  
“Please tell me the gnomes weren’t in sexual positions.” You wanted reassurance.  
  
“That’s disgusting.”  
  
“I think I’m going to nominate you for the November gnome for next year. You’d look cute in a little red hat.” _And nothing else._  
  
“Shut up and read your menu, Brian.” He knew you couldn’t; he had your glasses somewhere on his bionic little body. He corrected himself with a smirk on his face, “I’m sorry. That was rude. Shut up and read your menu, _sir._ ”  
  
“Give me my glasses.”  
  
“Don’t have them.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
You got up to go back upstairs, and he laughed at you as he produced them, “Here.” You took them from him and opened your menu with a flourish. It was the wrong one--the _Wine and Spirits_ menu. “That’s the wrong menu, sir,” he said, handing you the correct one. You opened the correct menu, ignoring his eyes hovering over his from the other side of the table as he said, “I love you, sir.”  
  
You tried to sound sincere, “How comforting.”  
  
“You look very sexy tonight,” he told you, pretending to read the appetizers. “Almost good enough to eat.”  
  
……  
  
“Is that a promise?”  
  
“Perhaps. I suppose if you buy me dinner, I’m obligated.”  
  
“Well, then,” you said, closing your menu and crossing your arms on top of it on your table, “Nate’s not paying for this one.”  
  
**********************  
_I drank the potion she offered me_  
  
When the two of you had entered The Tavern forty minutes earlier, Justin had immediately recognized Sarah hovering around the piano and moved to your other side to conceal himself from view, declaring, “Oh shit, that’s all I need. I hope she doesn’t remember me.”  
  
“Fat chance, Sunshine,” you told him, putting your arm around him. “I’m surprised _you_ remember her.”  
  
……  
  
After you were seated, Justin eyes quickly scanned the restaurant, “Is Nate here?”  
  
You glanced around and didn’t see him, “Doesn’t look like it. Don’t worry; I’ll introduce you.”  
  
“As what, the guy who pissed off his wife?”  
  
“If the shoe fits…” He’d kicked you under the table, “Ow. Okay, you win; your shoes fit.”  
  
He told you that the prospect of meeting Nate was making him a little nervous, but it certainly wasn’t curbing his appetite. When the waitress returned, pouring you both a glass of the gifted white wine, Justin ordered three different appetizers, and, “Some water, please.”  
  
The waitress turned to you to take your order and you added, “Um, I’ll just have water. There won’t be room for anything else on the table.”  
  
Justin made a face at you as he surrendered his menu and after the waitress was out of earshot, “Fucking makes me hungry.”  
  
“Apparently.” You’d propped your legs on either side of him, your long legs giving you an advantage he didn’t have, considering the table was awfully wide.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked, curling his fingers around your shins.  
  
“Measuring you before you eat, so I can see how much weight you gain after dinner.”  
  
“We’ll fuck it off.”  
  
……  
  
Well, he had you there.  
  
……  
  
Just then one of the doors to The Tavern opened, spilling light from the lobby all over the dim restaurant. It darkened again as the door closed, and you watched Nate walk over to the bar, greet and put his arms around Sarah. Justin observed you observing them and made the connection that that man wrapping his arms around Sarah’s waist must be Nate, “Oh my god, he loves her.”  
  
You laughed, “’Fraid so.”  
  
“I’m dead.”  
  
“Drama queen.”  
  
Your plethora of appetizers arrived, and the platters were so large that you and Justin decided to forego the small plates that came with them and just graze over all three of them simultaneously. You put a mozzarella stick in your mouth, trying to remember the last time you’d actually eaten cheese-much less _fried_ cheese. Justin refilled your glass of wine and then read you the description on the bottle at your request and because you’d given him back your glasses ten minutes ago.  
  
“Brian, listen to this: ‘ _2001 Chateau Rieussec Sauternes; Pale yellow-gold. An elixir of a nose: apricot, rose petal, minerals, nuts and spices. Crushed fruit flavors offer almost painful intensity, with penetrating limey acidity buffering the wine's great sweetness. Complicated by an intriguing carnal quality. This extremely young wine shows a slightly aggressive, almost tannic finish and extraordinary subtle persistence. Like a couple of the vintage's other standouts, this is almost painful today and really calls for a good 10 to 15 years of cellaring._ ’”  
  
“Sunshine, I think they bottled you.”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“You do have an ‘intriguing carnal quality’ and your flavor is almost ‘painfully intense.’”  
  
“Not to mention my ‘extraordinary subtle persistence.’”  
  
“I’m a little freaked out that they picked out this wine for us; I feel like someone’s been spying on us,” you told him. “I mean, you could definitely use a ‘good ten to fifteen years of cellaring.’”  
  
“And now, you’re mocking and drinking me.”  
  
“Every hour on the hour, right?” you asked, tapping his glass with yours. “Here’s to your extreme youth and slight aggressiveness.”  
  
“It’s my trademark,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows at you.  
  
“I think you should have the entire description of that wine tattooed on your inner thigh.” The thought of reading between his legs started making you hard, even without your spectacles.  
  
“Ouch.”  
  
You grinned at him from across the table, your pale yellow-gold, vintage standout.  
  
**********************  
_these are their stories_  
  
Your dinner conversation with Justin was wandering all over the place, and you were enjoying it. It was nice just to be able to sit, talk and laugh with him, knowing that you’d also be getting serviced later that evening by the very same mouth that was regaling you with stories from the city. The two of you had a lot to catch up on.  
  
In his adventures exploring your house, he’d been amazed at the design of both Jenny’s and Gus’s rooms and wanted to know, “Who did that stuff? It’s amazing.”  
  
“Ruben.”  
  
“Ruben?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Jenny’s room looks like a fairy tale come true.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
At that point, the conversation veered down the path of how you met Ruben, actually interviewed him, at a roller skating rink in Pittsburgh. Justin was rather incredulous, “You interviewed him at a roller skating rink?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because that’s where he was working before he worked for me.”  
  
“At a roller-skating rink?”  
  
You’d missed seeing Justin’s forehead crinkle up like that; it made you nostalgic for his teenage years. Of course, so did the way he insisted on having a straw in his water and just kept sucking down glass after glass. Just all that sucking.  
  
“He was the D.J.”  
  
“Get the fuck out. For like little kids?”  
  
“For ‘like’ everybody. Anybody who wanted to skate.”  
  
“Did he make everybody do the Hokey Pokey?”  
  
“Occasionally. In fact, we do the Hokey Pokey at Babylon now, just with more emphasis on the ‘pokey.’”  
  
“Imagine that.”  
  
You elaborated, explaining to Justin that when Theodore had called Ruben to set up an interview, Ruben had informed him that he was working at the roller rink ‘ _all the time ‘cause they hardly pay me anything.’_ He’d told Ted that if you wanted to interview him, you’d need to meet him down there on his break or comp him for the hour he was going to miss. You were so intrigued by this bizarre approach to job hunting, that you told Ted to forget it, that you’d go down there yourself and see what this guy was all about. You went on a Saturday night when all of your fuck-prospects had fallen through.  
  
The last time you’d been at that roller rink that you seriously thought they’d long ago demolished was when you were thirteen and trying to teach Mikey how to skate. The effort proved futile; Mikey’s utter lack of coordination and self-confidence amounted to you skating backwards for about an hour while dragging him in circles to an extended remix of _I Want A New Drug._ It wasn’t one of your finer moments, but in retrospect, it may have been prophetic.  
  
Ruben was starting a couple’s skate (ladies’ choice) when you walked in that Saturday night and you watched in amazement as he monitored every single person skating on the floor and tried to encourage people ‘ _not to leave anyone out. We’ve got plenty of guys who need a partner, ladies.”_  
  
A very skinny, little girl with long blonde hair and glasses knocked on the side of Ruben’s booth to get his attention; you figured she was maybe twelve. They’d shared a few words, and then Ruben exited the booth and started walking right over to where you were sitting. He hadn’t known you were coming; as far as you knew, he didn’t even know who you were.  
  
“ _The young lady standing by my booth would like to skate with you, sir, but she’s too shy to ask you.”  
  
“What?”_ That was the last thing you expected to come out of his mouth.  
  
“ _What size do you wear? I’ll get you some skates.”  
  
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not here to skate, I’m—"  
  
“You’re going to turn that little girl down?”_ You looked over at her; she was staring at her skates. “ _Don’t do that. That’s shitty.”_  
  
Then, _you_ were embarrassed, “ _Sure. Sure, no problem; I’ll get some skates.”_ You smiled at the young girl, got some skates, and caught her smiling at you when you were lacing them up. When you stepped onto the floor, you imagined that there’d never been a guy who looked as good in roller skates, tight jeans, and a button-down black shirt as you did.  
  
You never even knew the young girl’s name, but you skated the rest of the song with her and another one that Ruben put on, “ _Let’s just keep this going, everybody. You guys look great out there.”_ Her hand was sweaty and every time you looked down at her, she turned completely red.  
  
Toward the end of the second song, you started praying that this little girl’s father wasn’t waiting in the wings to beat the fuck out of you (because you’d been there, done that), but she thanked you very politely when the song ended, let go of your hand, and skated towards her friends at the concession stand. When she rolled up to them, the entire group dissolved into a fit of giggling and pointing. It was the second pink posse you’d ever seen.  
  
When Ruben announced that he was going on his break, he turned on a long music set and immediately got on the floor. Turned out to be a good thing you hadn’t shed your skates. You had to zoom around to catch him and tell him who you were and why you were there. He didn’t seem the least bit phased that you were Brian Kinney or that the two of you were having a ‘skating interview.’  
  
It was, hands down, the weirdest fucking thing you’d ever done. (And that’s saying something.) After you’d hired Ruben and worked with him for a couple of weeks, you were able to put that experience into much more context. Ruben, god or medication help him, can’t be still. Had he not skated for that interview, he would’ve fidgeted himself to death, and he feared, you later found out, that he wouldn’t get the job.  
  
He was perfect behind the bar at Babylon because no one could take their eyes off of him, and even Ruben understood, “ _We don’t make any money when they’re back there fucking. We make it at the bar.”_  
  
(That next year, you’d talked Gus into having his birthday party at the skating rink, and it was the best damn birthday party Pittsburgh _or_ Toronto had ever seen. You may or may not have couple’s skated with Mel when it was time for ‘Hate Skate.’)  
  
But the most unbelievable part of that evening came when you and Ruben were done, the deal was struck, and you’d retired your negotiating-wheels. When you exited the building, you saw a familiar act being performed (quite well) by an all-too-familiar face:  
  
Molly Taylor.  
  
Justin choked on a stuffed mushroom, “My sister?”  
  
“Your sister.” You waved to the waitress to bring him a lot more water, and then got up and slapped him on the back.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Brian, you didn’t have to hit me that hard.”  
  
“You were choking. I was saving you.”  
  
“Whatever. What do you mean you saw my sister in the parking lot?”  
  
You’ll never forget the look on Molly’s face when you knocked on the window, and she recognized you, “Let’s just say that it must be a gene that runs in your family.” Justin appeared unable to process this information; his mouth full of a ‘loaded potato wedge,’ and he’d just stopped chewing. “’Course, I’ve never actually seen your mother ‘nip Tuck,’ but I have a feeling that you were the late bloomer in your family, Sunshine.”  
  
(And that’s saying something.)  
  
……  
  
“Chew your food. You look like you’re going to faint.”  
  
He finally swallowed, “Oh my god.”  
  
“That’s exactly what I thought at first, but then I sorta thought _thatta girl._ ”  
  
A chicken finger flew across the table and almost went down your shirt.  
  
It had been one of the unexpected advantages of not going to New York with Justin—getting to witness the actual passing of the ‘Taylor Torch.’ You’d never really planned on telling him this story, but regardless of your intentions, you felt it was going very well.  
  
Not.  
  
“Now, now, behave, Justin. We don’t need a repeat of lunch.” You ducked to miss the cheese fry.  
  
The entire memory was beginning to make you sentimental because you’d just realized that you’d witnessed both Taylor children giving their very first blow jobs, and no one else could lay claim to that.  
  
“How do you know it was her first?” Justin wanted to know.  
  
“Because I took her home afterward, plied her with liquor and E, and gave her a few pointers.”  
  
“You asshole.”  
  
“That’s how _you_ learned. And very well, I might add.” He knew you were kidding--about her, anyway.  
  
Not about him.  
  
“Why are you so pissed? You should be proud; she was following on your kneecaps.”  
  
“I can’t believe— I just—"  
  
“Well, if it’s genetic, it’s not like she can help it, Justin.”  
  
His oddly arousing yet scolding tone resurfaced, “Honestly, Brian.”  
  
He really didn’t seem to be rolling with the punches like you’d hoped, “If it makes you feel any better, I made the kid get out of the car.”  
  
(You’d made a scene, quite frankly; you were being a tad disingenuous letting Justin think that the sight of his little sister sucking cock hadn’t rattled your cage a little.)  
  
“Molly? You made Molly get out of the car?”  
  
“No, the guy she was with.”  
  
(You may have opened the door and yanked him to his feet, but those were just irrelevant details.)  
  
“How old was he?”  
  
“Seventeen?”  
  
(His birthday was a week from that night. You’d made him show you his license. You could only imagine the celebration Molly had planned for him.)  
  
At this point in the story, there were several voices in your head, and at least one in your cock, imploring you to stop telling it, that the odds of you getting fellated after this tale were becoming exponentially lower with every word. But as if driving a runaway train through a dark tunnel with only the light of a miner’s helmet, you told Justin the rest of the story, trying to minimize the parts where you looked like the over-bearing, psycho-homosexual lover of her older brother:  
  
“ _Have you been drinking?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Molly, have you been drinking?”  
  
“No comment.”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Kyle.”  
  
“Kyle, stand on one foot and put your left index finger on your nose.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Are you having sex with her?”  
  
“Brian!”  
  
“You mean, real sex?”  
  
“Intercourse. Fucking.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Molly, is that the truth?”  
  
“Yes, Brian. It’s the truth. God, I can’t believe this.”  
  
“Okay, now, while you’re standing there, I want you to recite the pledge of allegiance. Prove to me you’re not drunk.”  
  
“I can’t remember the pledge of allegiance, sir. You’re making me nervous. Can I put my foot down?”  
  
“No. Okay, fine. Just recite something that you know.”  
  
“Um, okay…let me think…um…in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups…the police who investigate crimes and the district attorneys who prosecute… the offenders.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“These are their stories.”  
  
“Not bad. I can’t believe you can recite the opening monologue to  Law & Order, but you don’t know the goddamn pledge of allegiance.”  
  
“The educational system has gone downhill since you were in school, sir.”  
  
“All right, listen, I’m going to let you go, and Molly, I’m not gonna say anything to your Mom—"  
  
“Or Justin, ‘cause he’ll just tell Mom—"  
  
“Fine, or Justin. But Molly, if you’re gonna be blowing random guys in roller rink parking lots, you need to be using a condom.”  
  
Kyle got back in the car, promising to take Molly right home. As you walked around to your car, you heard him tell Molly, “Fat chance I’m gonna pledge allegiance to that fag. Why didn’t you tell me your brother was so old and gay?”  
  
“He’s not that old. He’s twelve years younger than Brian.”  
  
“And he yelled at ME!?”  
  
“And it’s none of your business that my brother’s gay.”  
  
……  
  
You were pulling out of your parking space, when Molly’s car door flew open and she ran to the passenger side of yours and jumped in, “Take me home, and don’t give me any shit.”  
  
……  
  
“Sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to—"  
  
“How much do condoms cost?”_  
  
…..  
  
Justin looked like a fizzy mixture of mortification and relief when you were done, “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”  
  
“I’d rather not be punched, if it’s my choice.” You leaned way back in your seat before you told him, “I gave her a bunch of condoms.”  
  
“With spermicide, I hope.” His bitchy tone was making you want to touch yourself.  
  
“Yes, we drove to a drugstore about ten miles away, and I gave her an invaluable education… and a gift certificate.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.”  
  
“I’d rather not—ever again.”  
  
……  
  
The two of you picked at the dwindling appetizers in front of you in silence for a few minutes, until the waitress noticed that you’d finished your bottle of wine and brought you another. He finally spoke as you were pouring, “I guess if I’d been here, I would’ve had that conversation with her and not you.”  
  
“Quite possibly, but probably not at a roller rink.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“I feel like I missed watching her grow up.”  
  
“I know what you mean. I feel the same way about Gus.”  
  
……  
  
“Maybe someday I can do for Gus what you did for Molly.”  
  
“Okay, let’s change the subject.”  
  
……  
  
“Fine, I’m going to the bathroom. Order me some cheesecake and a vodka tonic. And hold the tonic.”  
  
“Yes, dear.”  
  
You made it two.

  
  
Lyrics taken from Kenny Roger’s _Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town_ , The Chiffon’s _He’s So Fine_ , Roseanne Cash’s _Seven Year Ache_ , Dan Fogelberg’s _Leader of the Band_ , The Pointer Sister’s _Fire_ , Carly Simon’s _Anticipation_ , Dolly Parton’s _Here You Come Again (And Here I Go)_ , Carly Simon’s _Anticipation_ again, Sonny and Cher’s _I Got You Babe_ , Cliff Richard’s _Devil Woman_ , and _Law & Order’s_ opening narration read by Steve Morgan (NBC).  
  
_Description of the wine Brian and Justin had at dinner was taken from[wineaccess.com](http://www.wineaccess.com/ecommerce/product.tcl?product_id=10205809) and if you’ll notice, I didn’t alter it at all. 0_0  
_ _  
_


	21. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 18-Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 1/16/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 18-RECEPTION  
  
JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _stone in love with you_   
  
You wound your way up the back stairwell to your room at The Rockford, bumping into a couple of resort employees feeling each other up as you turned a corner. The young man who had the willing woman against the beige, painted cinderblock wall, stopped moving his hands underneath her shirt when you walked by. You heard the girl whisper to him as you started up the last set of stairs,   
  
“ _Hurry, our break’s almost over.”  
  
“I wanna fuck you.”  
  
“We don’t have time.”_  
  
You were beginning to believe that the entire world was in heat.  
  
Your key clicked inside the keyhole as you opened the door to your room, surprised to see that the invisible housekeeping elves of The Rockford had already remade your bed and put clean towels in the bathroom, which was where you were headed, complimentary chocolate chipmunks already melting in your hand.  
  
But you took a small detour first.  
  
Brian always hid his weed inside the inner lining of his garment bag, and you rummaged for it, finding it at the very bottom lying inside a leather cuff. You’d pulled both out, not expecting all three more cuffs to follow, chained together like the paper chains you used to make in grade school. Your curiosity got the better of you, so you’d turned on the light in the closet, trying to discern what the other lump was in the bottom of the bag.  
  
It was white.  
  
It was rope.  
  
……  
  
Holy honeymoon.  
  
……  
  
You’d stuffed it back where you found it, minus the pot, which you took with you into the bathroom.  
  
The gnome soap dispenser was relegated to the only working drawer in the bathroom before you lit up, not interested in watching him judge you or your habits. As you sat on the throne in the pine-scented porcelain outhouse, smoking and thinking, you began to ponder the actual volume of each of Brian’s ejaculations now that they were actually in your ass. It certainly wasn’t a new thing for your ass to feel like a slip-n-slide, but you could usually feel a light at the end of the tunnel...  
  
 _Bad choice of words._  
  
Seemed odd to you that Brian hadn’t complained about the state of his posterior since your recent forays into the unencumbered.   
  
Not once.  
  
Or even the second time…  
  
Perhaps the third would be the charm.  
  
************************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _and we’ll never be lonely anymore_   
  
As Justin was walking out of The Tavern, Nate was approaching your table. “Snagged yourself quite a youngster there,” he said as he sat down across from you in the space Justin had occupied a minute before, “Tried to stop him and introduce myself, but he was walking too fast.”  
  
You watched the door close behind Justin as he exited the restaurant, “I think he’s embarrassed.”  
  
“Embarrassed? Why?”  
  
You glanced over in Sarah’s direction, “He had a bit of a tiff with your wife today.”  
  
“Who didn’t?” You laughed as Nate’s eyes perused the food on the table in front of him, “I send you a _2001 Chateau Rieussec Sauterness_ , and you order appetizers and cheesecake?” He seemed genuinely puzzled, probably because he’d dined with you far more times over the years than Justin had.  
  
You motioned to the spread in front of you, defending yourself, “Wine goes with cheese.” Cheese sticks, cheese fries, stuffed mushrooms with cheese.  
  
 _Cheese_ cake.  
  
Christ, you’d lost your mind.  
  
“So does a heart attack,” Nate laughed, and then he noticed, “Whoa. Is that a ring on your finger, Kinney, or do my eyes deceive me?”  
  
“No deception,” you replied, straightening your left hand in front of you. “I did it.” You felt like you were trying to convince yourself.  
  
“When? Where? Wearing what?” Nate inquired, his obsession with clothing only secondary to yours because he was always dreaming of _athletic_ apparel.  
  
“The other night. In bed. Naked.”  
  
Nate looked over at Sarah and then back at you, “You lucky bastard. I had to dance with her mother. She smelled like dead gardenias.”  
  
“My condolences.”  
  
“It was worth it, though,” Nate continued, as if his mind was suddenly floating above his body, “And our honeymoon….hell, I’m surprised I lived through it.”  
  
“If I’m not in the office Monday, you’ll know why.”  
  
“Touché,” Nate sighed, his eyes glued to Sarah’s ass as she leaned over the bar. When he came back to reality, he stood up and said, “Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”  
  
You stood, but were hesitant to leave the table, “I don’t think Sarah’s interested in meeting me again.”  
  
“Not Sarah. The bartender. Come on.”  
  
************************  
 _them good ol’ boys are drinkin’ whiskey and rye_   
  
Brown Athletics had gone public about five years ago, and unbeknownst to you that night, the news of Leo’s impending death and Nate’s impending takeover had actually made the stock soar in the last few days. Rarely would news of the inevitable demise of a prominent businessman cause a rally, but Nate Rockford’s name was synonymous with steady profit. You usually started your mornings checking out the Nasdaq because it was information that you needed in your line of work, but you’d been slightly pre-occupied the last few days—to say the least.  
  
The bartender at The Tavern, the man who’d been responsible for picking out the wine you’d been drinking that evening (again, unbeknownst to you) was named Kenny O’Brien. Turned out that Nate had been dying to introduce the two of you just to see the look on your face. Nate was kooky like that sometimes.  
  
Kenny O’Brien asked to see your business card because he wanted proof that that was really your name and then added, “So, you’re Irish huh?”  
  
“Only in that alcoholic sort of way,” you replied.  
  
“Well, as your bartender this evening, I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”  
  
“It was good to meet you,” and then you turned around in response to a hand on your shoulder. You’d hoped it was Justin.  
  
The perfume should’ve been a hint. It was Sarah.   
  
And then Nate, “Brian, I think you’ve sort of met my wife?”  
  
“Mr. Kinney, it’s so nice to officially meet you; Nate tells me so many wonderful things about you.” Nate patted you on the back and wandered away in the direction of the upper dining area.   
  
You turned your attention back to Sarah, “Thanks. Nice to meet you, too.”  
  
“I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us?”  
  
You nodded, “Absolutely. It’s been wonderful. You have quite a…special…place here.”  
  
“That we do,” she replied, squeezing your upper arm and tilting her head, “Come with me.” You followed her, mostly because there was a full bottle of _Southern Comfort_ (seventy-six proof) dangling from her right hand. She climbed the two stairs to the upper dining area and led you to the piano, where Nate was cracking his knuckles. He played the first few bars of Billy Joel’s _Piano Man,_ receiving several cheers from the instant (and obviously not unsuspecting) audience of restaurant patrons.  
  
“Have a seat, Kinney,” he said, and you had no choice because Sarah was practically nudging you with her hip. She walked away and returned momentarily with four shot glasses, lining them up on the piano, right in front of Nate’s face.   
  
“Pour, sweetheart,” he told her, and then he turned to you, “So, can you play?”  
  
“What? The piano?”  
  
“Yeah, the piano. Someone with fingers as long as yours—"  
  
“No, I can’t. Not really musically inclined.”  
  
“Can you sing?”  
  
“No. God, no.”  
  
Sarah chimed in, now that all four shot glasses were full, “Well, can you dance?”  
  
“Absolutely. I can dance,” you affirmed, happy that you could do something, although the bump and grind at Babylon probably wasn’t their cup of tea.  
  
“Well, one out of three’s not bad, although you’re not much help to me at the moment.” You looked at Nate to be sure he was joking around, and then he continued, “And that’s a rarity. You’re always such a help to me. I suppose it’s time I return the favor.”  
  
“I think you have. You’re sponsoring our honeymoon.” You picked up one of the shot glasses and emptied it immediately after Nate had thrown his back.  
  
“That I am,” he said, segueing into _Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head._ Sarah was refilling the glasses as he warmed up. “And since you can’t play and can’t sing, then I guess you’ll just have to watch and learn.” He was looking at Sarah when he said those words, and they shared a knowing-look between them.   
  
“Where’s your partner, Mr. Kinney?” Sarah asked.  
  
“Brian.”  
  
“Brian, where’s your partner?” she repeated.  
  
“He went to the restroom.” And anytime he wanted to come back would’ve been fine with you.  
  
“Well, hopefully he’ll be back soon or we’ll have to send someone in there after him. Won’t we, Nate?”  
  
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”  
  
“You’re a good man, Nate Rockford,” she responded, and you hoped you’d still be able to flirt this enthusiastically when you were their age.  
  
“That’s what they tell me. Drink up, Brian. I need to tell you about Leo.”  
  
“What about Leo?”  
  
“He’s dying. I’ll be surprised if he makes it a week.”  
  
“Shit. I didn’t realize it’d gotten so bad.” You threw back another shot and let it burn your throat. It felt good. “What’s he going—"  
  
“He wants me to run the company.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“I’m not. I accepted his offer.”   
  
Sarah gave Nate a congratulatory pat on the shoulder, her face replete with sympathy, “I’m going to miss him. He’s been good to Nate. God, it’s been so many years. Hard to believe.”  
  
“I’m going to need your help more than ever, Brian,” Nate told you, smiling at people he knew in a neighboring booth. “I’m gonna have a lot on my plate.”  
  
“Not a problem,” you replied, staring at Nate’s fingers as he played the piano, realizing all of a sudden how many talents this friend of yours had--and how much influence. “Anything you need.”  
  
“I knew I’d feel better about this after I talked to you about it. As far as The Rockford’s account is concerned, you’ll probably be dealing with Sarah and not me anymore. I won’t have time.”  
  
“Sure. Are you going to Chicago?”  
  
“I’ll probably move the headquarters here in about a year. We have a strong manufacturing base in this state, and we could definitely use the business. And the more business I bring to New Hampshire—"  
  
“The more business you bring to The Rockford.”  
  
“You got it,” and then he turned on the microphone that was right in front of him, **“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Nate Rockford, and as most of you know, I own this little hole in the wall. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been able to sit down at this piano, two weeks since I’ve spent an evening with my wife, so I thought we’d have a little fun tonight…if that’s okay with you.”**  
  
The Tavern erupted in applause that you felt like everyone had been holding since Nate sat down at the piano. He turned to you, a grin on his face, “They know me here.”  
  
************************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _she’s a very kinky girl  
the kind you don’t take home to mother_   
  
The main staircase at The Rockford was so majestic that you wanted to sketch it…from the bottom and from the top. That night, you stood at the top trying to decide which side you were going to walk down, fighting the overwhelming urge you had to slide down the banister. You decided to stick to the right side and took your time descending the stairs, your eyes focused on the door to The Tavern. Brian was behind that door (with your cheesecake), and you couldn’t wait to get back to him.   
  
As you approached the door, you could hear music and lots of clapping, and you opened the door slowly, making sure that you had the right place. When you poked your head in, you could see straight back to your booth. It was empty, a lone piece of cheesecake waiting on your side of the table. You wondered if perhaps Brian had tired of waiting for you and had gone to find you, but you would’ve passed him—  
  
And then you saw him. Smiling at you from the piano, waving at you to come over, raising a shot glass of what had to be whiskey. You shook your head at him and let the door close in front of you. This was not what you had in mind when you came down to fetch him.   
  
The door opened seconds later, and you breathed a sigh of relief because he’d come out, but your relief was short lived because it wasn’t Brian.  
  
It was the leg of a woman clad in black pants punctuated by a black, strappy heel. Her toenails were a deep red.  
  
The leg belonged to Sarah.  
  
You turned around and tried to walk to the stairs inconspicuously, but you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder, red nails again.  
  
“Mr. Taylor?”  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“What’s your hurry?”  
  
“I was just looking for Brian,” you said, feeling like a teenager who’d just gotten caught sneaking out of the house.  
  
“Well, how fortunate. He’s looking for you.”  
  
“He is?”  
  
“Won’t you join us?”  
  
The expression on your face when you opened the door to find Brian had clearly read, _What the fuck are you doing?_ and his had quite clearly read, _Where the fuck have you been?_ You began to wonder if she was holding him hostage in there, if perhaps your former superhero/victim roles had been reversed, and you were the only one who could save him.   
  
But you were kind of tired.  
  
Sarah didn’t give you a chance to answer before she was touching you again, this time taking your hand and pulling you toward the door she’d propped open with her foot, “You know, I have a leash behind the bar. Don’t make me use it.”  
  
“Excuse me?” It was less of a question and more of a plea.  
  
“It’s brand new, too. I’m dying to break it in.”  
  
The next thing you knew, you were inside the door and it was closing behind you to zealous applause from the entire restaurant and the unmistakable melody of _New York, New York._   
  
**“There’s our little runaway. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Brian’s better half, an artist from New York City. Justin Taylor, better late than never.”**  
  
You heard yourself apologizing to Sarah for your behavior earlier while you wished she’d get her steering hand off of your back.  
  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t apologize.” The fact that you were getting closer and closer to Brian during this ordeal was the only thing brining you comfort at that moment. And then you found yourself standing beside the piano as Sarah finished her thought, “But you can make it up to me.”  
  
“I can?”  
  
“On the piano.”  
  
************************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _like sands through the hourglass_   
  
_fifteen minutes earlier…_  
  
“So tell me, Brian,” Sarah began, leaning on the piano as she refilled your glasses, “How did my painting get broken again?”  
  
If you were going to be dealing primarily with Sarah from now on, she might as well know who she was dealing with, “I fucked him a little too hard.” `  
  
“Did you hear that, Nate? We’re not the only ones who’ve destroyed things while we were making love.” Her voice sounded reassuring, but for some reason you felt much less comfortable after that statement.   
  
Nate wasn’t the least bit fazed; he played on as if she’d offered him a glass of water, “Well, you won’t be the first or the last, Brian.” You hoped he was referring to breaking the painting and not to fucking Justin too hard.  
  
Because you were the first, and, god willing, you’d be the last.  
  
And then there was all the in between.  
  
……  
  
Before your mother ever found Jesus, she found AM radio—specifically a wooden unit made by _RCA_ about the size of a bread box with an orangey brown burlap material covering the single speaker. In your memories, your summer vacations have a soundtrack in the background featuring Cat Stevens, Jim Croce, Neil Diamond, Dionne Warwick, and on particularly melancholy days, Little Anthony and the Imperials. (You’d always suspected that your mother’s sudden interest in religion had less to do with Jesus and more to do with Dusty Springfield’s _Son of a Preacher Man._ )   
  
She loved that radio more than she loved your father, and it became an escape for her after he left for work. As you played touch football in the backyard with boys from the neighborhood, you’d look over your shoulder to see her watching you from the window, wearing a faded sundress, the smoke from her cigarette swirling around her head. Your mother was never one for the sun.  
  
She’d make lunch for you, your friends, and Claire at noon everyday, and you ate grilled cheese sandwiches while listening to Paul Harvey prattle on about ‘ _the rest of the story.’_   
  
When you finished eating and opened the refrigerator, she’d always say, “ _No more soda, Brian,”_ as she poured herself the first drink for the day, “ _You boys can drink water.”_  
  
You’d always bitch at her because your friends were there and you didn’t want to look like a pussy, “ _God, Mom. Whatever.”  
  
“Go play outside. Your sister and I are going to watch Days of Our Lives.”_  
  
Claire was already perched on the sofa with a _Tab_ in her hand, and she’d give you one of those looks as she opened it that made you want to beat the crap out of her as you and your friends headed back outside. The football game after lunch was always more violent than the one before.  
  
That night as you sat beside Nate at the piano, you quietly thanked your mother for never turning off that radio, even when you’d complained about her shitty taste in music.   
  
……  
  
 **“Most of you know that I travel all week, never really knowing where I’m going to hang my hat for the evening,”** Nate remarked as he began _Ramblin’ Man_ by the Allman Brothers Band. **“It’s always nice to be back home.”**  
  
You quickly realized that Nate’s audience was used to his routine, and they sang while he played, with him chiming in once in a while. Sarah was chiming in as well, the black, cordless mike in her hand blending in with her outfit, and it suddenly felt like Nate’s own personal ‘welcome home parade.’  
  
 **“Ladies and gentlemen, the man to my left is a good friend of mine and one helluva of an ad man and entrepreneur by the name of ‘Brian Kinney’—not to be confused with our illustrious bartender over there—‘Kenny O’Brien.’”** There was monstrous laughter followed by applause, which you figured was for the bartender and not you. **“This is Brian’s first visit to The Rockford, so I hope you’ll join me in making him feel welcome.”** There were whistles and cat calls. It felt a little like the backroom at Babylon for a second, but then you realized your pants were still on.  
  
Nate continued, **“We certainly don’t need an excuse to celebrate at The Rockford, but tonight, we have one.”** Applause again, clearly these people would applaud anything. You didn’t think it was in very good taste to celebrate Nate’s new job before Leo was even in the ground, but there was no need for you to worry because you weren’t. **“My friend here has just gotten himself hitched to his partner who my wife assures me is ‘awfully cute for being such a pissant.’”**  
  
Never had the urge to run like Forrest Gump been more urgent inside you, yet you remained strangely frozen in your seat.  
  
Nate leaned toward you, “Where is he?”  
  
“Don’t know,” you replied, hoping against hope that he’d fled the state. And then at that moment, as if on some sort of cosmic cue, one of the giant doors to The Tavern opened and you saw a curious blond head searching the restaurant for something familiar. “There he is,” you offered, not realizing that you’d live to regret those words a few minutes later. “I’ll go get him.”  
  
“No, let me,” Sarah said, pushing you back down in your seat. She walked toward the now closing door with a little more enthusiasm than you felt was necessary.  
  
You tried to hide the fear in your eyes when you told Nate, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your wife is quite a piece of work.” (Perhaps the _Southern Comfort_ was kicking in because you felt rather comfortable telling him that.)  
  
“And yours isn’t?”  
  
Well, he had you there.  
  
And then Nate continued, playing _Just the Way You Are_ as his wife walked away, “Ever since Sarah beat breast cancer, she pretty much lives each minute to the fullest. It takes some getting used to.” (Sarah stopped on her way to the door, turning around to smile at her husband for his musical selection.)  
  
“I didn’t know she was a cancer survivor,” you admitted.  
  
“She reminds me a lot of you sometimes,” he added, “Does what she wants, when she wants. Doesn’t give a damn what people think.”  
  
You couldn’t really argue with that. “Good way to be.”   
  
“Plus, she’s an artist, _if you know what I mean,”_ he added. “When passion strikes her, you better get the hell out of the way, you know?”  
  
Oh, you knew. Only too well.  
  
************************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _now I stand here helplessly_   
  
There was, quite simply put, no fucking way you were getting on that piano.  
  
It was certainly true (and you didn’t need Nate Rockford’s announcement to the entire establishment to make it so) that you’d been the heralded ‘King of Babylon’ many years ago, and furthermore, there was absolutely no reason for Brian to remind you of your go-go dancing days.  
  
“Don’t you remember? You let some manager blow you so you could dance on the bar.”  
  
Brian beamed at that memory, as though it made you more worthy of the ring now on your finger. It became immediately apparent to you as you felt his hands on your waist, your feet coming off the floor, and your ass making contact with the top of the piano that you did not know this man you married. But your new husband refused to be deterred from his mission, even as you heard your shoes hit the floor one at a time and then felt his warm hands wrapping around your socked feet.  
  
“Lie down, Sunshine. You’re our siren for the evening.”  
  
It didn’t matter to _you_ that Nate preferred to have Michelle Pfeiffer writhing on top of his favorite instrument and, that in her absence, was perfectly willing to settle for you instead. (Pfeiffer’s _Catwoman_ fame kept her at the top of Nate’s list, you’d learn years later.)  
  
“Used to be me, but my lying-on-the-piano days are over,” Sarah added in a wistful voice that made you nostalgic for something you’d never even experienced. You didn’t know how she did that.  
  
That night was one of maybe five times in your life that Brian had kissed you upside down, and definitely the _first_ time he’d kissed you upside down, while you were lying on top of a piano, while a guy sat next to him announcing, **“Welcome to your impromptu wedding reception, Mr. Taylor,”** and then promptly began a raucous version of _Just Like Romeo and Juliet_ by The Reflections. You hoped in vain that they were both just unbelievably trashed; their advancing years obviously severely impairing their abilities to hold their liquor.  
  
Brian spoke as he kissed you, “You’re stoned, you little shit.”  
  
You smiled, laying your hands on either side of his upside-down face, “I want my cheesecake.”  
  
You sat up when Brian returned, warming to the crowd’s exuberant reaction when Brian fed you what had suddenly become your wedding-cheesecake, sticking your finger in it and decorating his nose, ignoring his reminder of, “I’ve already had mine.”  
  
“Oh, you’re going to get yours again. Don’t worry.” You swallowed the next bite and added, “You knew about this, didn’t you?”  
  
Brian shook his head vehemently, “I swear to god, I had no idea.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
“That’s immaterial,” he told you, handing you a shot glass full of liquid redemption to wash your dessert down with, “We’re here now. You look fucking hot up there, and I for one am going to enjoy it.”  
  
“You really think I look hot?” you asked him, lying back down, this time on your stomach, your face resting in your hands. Someone in the audience came up and put fifty dollars in the over-sized glass next to your head which prompted Brian’s response,  
  
“I cannot tell a lie.” He raised a shot glass to you, as if toasting your re-emerging debauchery, “You look good enough to eat.”  
  
“Hey, someone just gave me fifty bucks.”  
  
“We give all that money to charity,” Nate told you with a smile, when he saw you eyeing the cash.  
  
Brian winked at you, “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a thousand if you’ll tell me where on your body you’re hiding my glasses.”  
  
“Hell, no. Every relationship’s gotta have a little mystery,” you informed him.  
  
“Amen to that,” Nate commented, his fingers dancing over the keys while the expression on his face looked a lot like the horny employees you’d seen in the stairwell earlier.  
  
Maybe there was something in the water.  
  
************************  
 _in the cool of the evening when everything is gettin' kind of groovy_   
  
Nate took a request from the audience and played _American Pie_ and even you knew the words to that, so you sang along, trying in vain to drown out Brian. And then to further embarrass you, Nate played _Going to The Chapel_ in honor of your nuptials, only he screwed you up because he changed the words:  
  
 **“ _Going to The Rockford,  
and we’re gonna get married…”_**  
  
And there wasn’t a soul in the bar who wasn’t singing along. You started your own one man kick line as they sang, watching your feet change places in the air.  
  
You alternated between marveling at Nate who seemed to value brand loyalty and name recognition even more than Brian, and then basking in the genuine adoration of all of these strangers at your unplanned wedding reception. You’d never pictured your wedding reception like this, surprised that you were spending it lying on a piano with your knees bent and your arms over your head.  
  
Nate’s voice gave out eventually, and he introduced Sarah, who much to your surprise had a beautiful voice and a presence when she sang that made everyone in that bar stare longingly at her. She ran her hand over the outline of your body when she sang _The Look of Love_ , and it didn’t give you a rash like you feared. You rolled on your side and watched her where she stood beside the piano, smiling when you felt Brian’s hand on the back of your head as he stood on the opposite side of the piano. You rolled back on your back so you could see him.  
  
“Having a good time?” he asked you, and you had to admit that much to your surprise, you were.   
  
“Yeah.” You ran your hand down the front of his shirt, “I like this song. It’s very…provocative.”  
  
He leaned down to kiss you, stopping first to whisper in your ear, “Makes me want to fuck you senseless.” He rested his hand on your stomach and you held it, staring up at him, reveling at how unbelievably handsome he was.  
  
Nate played on, politely ignoring the public display of affection that was going on right in front of him. You saw Brian catch his eye and knew that he was letting Nate know that your reception needed to come to an end or he was going to have to fuck you right there on the piano. (You sleep with a man for over a decade and you just know these things.)  
  
Lover’s intuition.  
  
As Sarah’s last song ended, Nate began to wrap up the evening, **“Well, folks, I want to thank you for being such wonderful guests at our spontaneous celebration tonight, and I suspect due to the rather intimate nature of Brian and Justin’s ‘ceremony’ that they’ve yet to have their first dance together as…”** He paused for a moment as if searching for the right words, **”King and Queen?”**   
  
Everyone laughed.  
  
 **”Well, am I right?”**  
  
You looked at Brian because at that moment you couldn’t remember much besides that evening and watched him tell Nate, “Yeah, you’re right.”  
  
“ **Well then, please allow me. I’d be honored…we all would.”**  
  
Kenny was pushing tables out of the way in front of the piano, and Sarah was helping him when Brian helped you sit up and get off the piano. You walked with him to the center of the floor, and when he stopped, you asked him, “Are you sure you didn’t plan this?”  
  
Brian smiled and kind of laughed, “Justin, I didn’t even know he played the piano. I swear.”  
  
You were about to say something else when Nate started playing again and announcing, “ **Somehow I think this song is appropriate, a little Ben E. King.”** He nodded to Sarah that it was all hers, and Brian smiled down at you as he held you in his arms.  
  
“Get your hand off my ass, Brian,” you whispered into his neck.  
  
He squeezed you a little tighter and replied, “No fucking way.”  
  
You thought that all you wanted to do after dinner was fuck, but this was nice, being in the arms of the man you loved and married. And although Sarah was singing and you were sure she sounded incredible and the crowd had quieted down considerably, you could only hear Brian’s voice singing soft and low in your ear,  
  
“ _when the night has come  
and the land is dark,  
and the moon is the only light we'll see.  
  
no, I won't be afraid,  
oh, I won't be afraid,  
just as long as you stand,   
stand by me.”_  
  
************************  
 **NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
 _our love’s gonna be written down in history_   
  
_11:17 p.m._  
  
Your audience of mostly regulars seemed to almost tiptoe out of the restaurant while Brian danced with Justin, many of them stopping to thank you for a wonderful meal, a delightful evening. Sarah waved good night to Kenny as he gathered his coat and left to go home. You’d played _Stand By Me_ a second time, sans Sarah’s vocals, and she sat beside you at the piano, leaning on your shoulder and watching the scene in front of her.  
  
“ _They’re so in love; it’s sweet,”_ she whispered as you played, her hand eventually wandering to your knee. (Fortunately, you’d taken your Viagra right before you played the last song.)  
  
“I know. I wanted to dance with you tonight, but I didn’t have a spare piano player,” you told her. “I hated to miss Valentine’s Day with you.”  
  
“Oh god, we were insanely busy. I was dead on my feet that night.”  
  
“I don’t need you on your feet,” you teased her, and she reminded you that the same went for you, her hand roaming up your thigh. You knew Sarah was in an amorous mood even before she’d started singing that night because she’d been shoe shopping. It was always a dead giveaway. “Are you trying to tell me something?”   
  
“You’re a smart man; you can figure it out.”  
  
You finished the song, quietly closing the lid on the piano, and you and Sarah started walking around The Tavern extinguishing candles and picking up stray glasses left behind by people reluctant to give up their liquor. And then the two of you leaned against the bar, waiting for the newlyweds to stop making out.   
  
And eventually they did, Brian waving good night to you as he held the door for Justin, “Sarah, Nate, thanks. That was really nice of you.”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” Justin added, “I had a really good time.”  
  
“Our pleasure,” you told them as you watched Justin pull Brian through the door by the hand.  
  
You’d turned off everything but the emergency lights in The Tavern and were locking the main door when you felt Sarah loop a handle of some sort over your fingers. You looked down, puzzled until you realized that it was a black gift bag with purple tissue paper inside it. When she spoke, her voice was soft and tired. It’d been a long week.  
  
“You remember our honeymoon?” she asked you as the two of you started up the stairs to the third floor, which was all yours.  
  
“Remember it? I’m still sore.” She laughed. “Is this a present for me?” you asked her, enjoying the coy expression on her face.  
  
“Oh, it’s definitely for you.”  
  
You lifted the bag up a little, “Can I see what it is?”  
  
“Nope. Maybe after we get upstairs.”   
  
A spark of excitement ignited inside you, spun in a circle, and burned itself out.  
  
……  
  
“I like them, Nate. Brian’s a great guy.”  
  
“He’s smart as hell, too.”   
  
“He better be,” she said, stopping at the top of the stairs, “We’re going to be unbelievably busy now.”  
  
“You’re okay with me doing this right? Even if I’m not around as much for a few months?”  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” she said, squeezing your hand. “We always do.”  
  
……  
  
You opened the door to your suite and followed Sarah into your bedroom, where a fire was roaring in the fireplace and your bed had been turned down. Living at The Rockford definitely had its advantages, made every night feel like your honeymoon.   
  
Well, that—and what was in the bag.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from The Stylistics’ _Stone in Love with You,_ The Dixie Cup’s _Going to the Chapel,_ Don McLean’s _American Pie,_ Rick James’s _Superfreak,_ the opening monologue of _Days of Our Lives,_ the Atlantic Rhythm Section’s _So Into You_ twice, and The Reflection’s _Just Like Romeo and Juliet._


	22. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 19-Fidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 1/29/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 19-FIDELITY  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _I’ve got your memory  
or has it got me?_  
  
The hardest thing about the last six years had been not knowing when or if he’d come home. There was a part of you that told yourself that he would, but there was a larger part of you that wouldn’t let yourself believe that. Perhaps you survived those six years because when it came to Justin, that feeling was uncomfortably familiar . . .  
  
You waited for him to finish getting ready in the morning, to finish his damn cereal, to pack his backpack, listened to his entertaining critique of every subject on the planet (including you) on the way to school. You waited for him to realize what a complete ass you really were and to stop drooling over you, humoring you, rolling over for you. You waited on that bench in the hospital after he was bashed, waited and waited for someone to come and reassure you that you hadn’t been dressed to kill.  
  
You waited for him to leave you, to find someone that better represented his point of view in matters of the heart, and then for him to come back, willingly, insatiable, and for good.  
  
You waited for him to return from California, and then for the inevitable, dramatic walk-out when the Brian he came home to wasn’t the Brian he wanted. You waited for what seemed like an hour to find him in the rubble of Babylon, cursing yourself all the while for allowing him to be compromised once again. You waited for him to accept your first proposal and then your second, for him to step back into your arms where he belonged, where you so desperately needed him to be.  
  
You waited for him to admit to himself that there were things he wanted out of life besides you, for him to leave again, those last agonizing seconds of his warm body underneath you—the first time you’d fucked him truly believing it would be the last.  
  
You waited for him to call, to ask your opinion on something, to need you to get through his day. You’d anticipated the day that he wouldn’t need you anymore, tried to prepare yourself, drank a lot when the pain was worse than the anticipation. You were so proud of him, it hurt.  
  
Like hell.  
  
You weren’t waiting for his phone call that night in the fall of 2010. You never expected it.  
  
For once, the instincts of Brian Kinney, the man who made his millions predicting people’s reactions to stimulate the economy, were wrong.  
  
Dead wrong.  
  
And being wrong had never felt so fucking fantastic.  
  
******************  
 _oh, mercy mercy me_  
  
The first time you let yourself realize that you loved him came when you tried to give him back, when watching the intolerance and disgust on his father’s face mirrored the way you knew you would’ve been treated had you come out to your family. It was then that you realized that Justin wasn’t just an expensive pair of jeans that didn’t fit right and could be returned on a whim. He was an investment of some sort, an investment who would ultimately have his own side of the bed.  
  
And that night, back in your room at The Rockford, you realized that you loved the man you always knew he’d become.  
  
The man whose hands moved confidently in the moonlight after he’d pulled you up the stairs, whose fingers unbuttoned your shirt, roamed down your chest, and then slid underneath the waistband of your pants as you stood by the bed pressing against him.  
  
There had never been a time when his appetite hadn’t matched yours. It had always been a perfect fit.  
  
He looked up at you as he stroked you, and you found yourself staring almost helplessly into his eyes wondering how you got there, trying to piece together the random acts of passion that had hosted your spontaneous wedding, haphazard honeymoon, and impromptu reception. Never had you unwittingly given up so much control and not fought to get it back.  
  
You wanted him to touch you, wanted to feel the arousing peacefulness that overcame you when he took over. And you didn’t have to direct him. He knew--by the sound of your breathing, by the way there was no space between you, by the way you closed your eyes and rested your head on top of his, by the quiet moan that you gave him when he loosened your belt and unzipped your pants. There were times when you let him seduce you, and then there were times when you wanted to be the object of his desire, when you craved it.  
  
He kissed you, and your grip on him tightened when his tongue parted your lips, when he pulled back and whispered to you as his thumb gently ringed the head of your cock, _”That was nice, downstairs, dancing with you like that._ ”  
  
“Yeah, it was.” His right hand rose off of your body and slid open the drawer on the nightstand. Your eyes followed his hand as it reached inside the drawer, smiling when you saw what he was reaching for, informing him, “You’ve been snooping.” The new rope you’d bought had been cut into two pieces; you glanced over your shoulder as he tossed them on the bed. “That’s why you were gone for so long.” You were talking to yourself, his only answer was a sigh as he ran his hand down your arm, stopping at your wrist.  
  
“What’d you cut it with?” you asked him.  
  
“Your knife,” he answered matter-of-factly.  
  
He’d been snooping all right. Apparently, matrimony trumped privacy.  
  
He nudged you and you sat back on the bed, watching him quietly as he unbuckled the cuff. He laid it down on the comforter and picked up the other one and did the same thing. And then he turned his attention back to you, letting your shirt fall off your shoulders. You were completely undressed, unlike him. You slid one of your fantasies into your imaginary _ViewMaster_ and watched the images flip through your mind one by one, telling him, “I want you to ride me.”  
  
“I will.” And then he kissed you, right beside your ear, “Lie down.” You sunk back into the pillows, pleased when he sat beside you. You placed your hand in his lap and he held it, his fingers warm inside yours. You squeezed his hand as he leaned forward, his hand on the side of your face when he spoke, his voice soft and smooth, “It’s been a long time since I’ve tied you up.”  
  
“Or tied me down.”  
  
He laughed at your remark. His hand left your face and wandered to your inner thigh. You bent your knee and moaned, pressing it against the side of his body.  
  
“You’re so fucking horny,” he told you, a mischievous grin on his face.  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
……  
  
At this point in your memory of that night, you always want to fast forward, to get to the part where he’s rimming you, fucking you, riding you, but your mind won’t take a shortcut. It prefers to remember the rope chafing your hands as you held on, it seems to skip and repeat the images of him tying you down…  
  
Your hand rested on his knee as he slid one of the pieces of rope through his fingers, studying it. He laid it over his leg, the bright white of the threads contrasting sharply with his black pants. And then he picked up your lighter from the nightstand and lit the candle held by a beady little gnome. He turned it around and you watched the light flicker on the wall as he leaned over the side of the bed, one strand of rope disappearing for a second and then reappearing after being looped through the bed frame.  
  
In the wake of impending restraint, you began to admit things to yourself as if you had some sort of immunity in that particular situation. Indeed, it was almost as if the bizarre occurrences leading up to that exact moment had been cosmically planned by someone with much more foresight than you…  
  
The night that Gus was born, the night that you were accosted with the realities of your perpetual lineage, you were aware of Justin in the hospital room, aware that he was seeing the unselfish side of you. Never before had you cared what a trick thought about you, as long as they were sufficiently in awe of your dick and its agenda. But that first night, there was a reason you looked back over your shoulder, a reason you wanted him to see you with your son, with your friends, with a smile on your face as you asked for his opinion.  
  
Perhaps it was because he wasn’t jaded, because he knew nothing of your reputation, because you saw another birth in that room that night that no one else could see, one that you fought to deny thinking that it would be your undoing. And despite your best efforts, it was.  
  
In much the same way that you’d conned people for decades into spending their hard earned money on things they didn’t need, to become people they really weren’t, you’d been the victim of pervasive, blond, subliminal advertising. You’d been your own unsuspecting focus group.  
  
…..  
  
“Hold this,” Justin told you, placing the ends of the looped rope in your hand. You closed your fingers around the rope, aware of the low moan that was escaping from you as he wrapped the leather cuff around your wrist and buckled it. You loved to watch his fingers work. “Pull,” he said, after tying the rope to the rings on the cuff, “Is it strong enough?”  
  
You yanked it hard, “Perfect,” and then you turned your head and watched him walk to the other side of the bed where he repeated the entire process again. “I don’t know who taught you to do this, but you’re very good,” you teased him.  
  
“You’d be amazed what they teach in scouts these days.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
He climbed onto the bed when he was finished, after you tested that side for him, and then laid beside you, running his hand down your back, “Comfortable?”  
  
“Extremely.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
…..  
  
It dawned on you right then that he was about the age you were when the two of you met, and you flashed on _your_ intent that evening as he kissed your shoulder, laying his head on your outstretched arm. His fingers combed through your hair, and you took a deep breath, closing your eyes as he touched your face, as his palm smoothed over your shoulder blades and down your back again.  
  
“ _Don’t come when I fuck you,”_ he whispered, “ _I want you inside me when you come.”_  
  
You agreed quietly with no concept of exactly how you were supposed to manage that. (When you’re married, information is dispensed to you on a need-to-know basis.)  
  
It probably would’ve surprised him if he’d been inside your head at that moment, if he could feel how relieved you felt that the waiting was over, that the two of you had fit back together like the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, that the thought of him wanting to fuck you, to please you, was zooming through your body like Ecstasy.  
  
……  
  
You held your breath when you felt him move and start kissing his way down your back, his fingers just ahead of his lips on the same path. When you felt them between your legs, you wrapped your fingers around the rope and began to hold on.  
  
……  
  
Justin was always undeniably beautiful when he was self-possessed.  
  
……  
  
You wanted to tell him what this was doing to you, how the thought of fighting off your orgasm set off fireworks in your mind, how feeling his body on top of yours made those fireworks echo over and over in your mind.  
  
But an explanation was unnecessary because Justin was fully aware that you were a successful, ungodly gorgeous, gay businessman who had a deep (no pun intended) respect for the many pleasures he could offer your ass.  
  
……  
  
“ _Please,”_ you begged, fractions of a second before you felt his face between your thighs, his thumbs parting you as you dug your head into the sheets. His tongue was so warm, so soft, so possessive that you wanted to grab him, touch him, everywhere, all at once. Your upper back flexed as you let your face rub against the sheets, an outlet for the sensations that were damming up beneath your skin.  
  
Taking advantage of the slight bit of leverage you had by pressing against the sides of the headboard, you rocked back into his mouth, and then sunk back down, steeling yourself when you heard him unzip his pants. You opened your eyes all the way and saw them slide off the side of the bed.  
  
He teased you before he started to fuck you, making you unable to stop thrusting back against his cock, so hard between your legs. You took what he gave you, but it did nothing but make you want him more.  
  
“I love when you grunt like that, Brian,” he said, right as he filled you, his body covering you as he let his arms stretch along the length of yours.  
  
“Uh.”  
  
He moved slowly at first, but the pleasure of it all overtook him, his hands pulling back against your body, his forehead burrowing into your back. He was beginning to sweat.  
  
“Don’t come,” he warned you, forcing you down as you stared at the cuff on your wrist, feeling your heartbeat in your hands.  
  
“God. Christ, Justin.”  
  
He let loose the most beautiful sound the second before he came, his right hand running up the back of your neck and into your hair, “Oh, god, Brian. Oh, god. Oh, god.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“ _Yes.”_ he almost hissed, and you felt the warmth spill inside you, filling you completely.  
  
…..  
  
He laid like that for about a minute, kissing the side of your face, reaching for your wrists to unbuckle the cuffs. You were free and still clinging to the rope. “Roll over,” he encouraged you after he pulled out, so you released the strands and flipped over, the heady mix of exhaustion and desire blanketing you as he buckled you back to the bed.  
  
“Ride me,” you reminded him, raising your head to watch as he climbed on top of you, your dick disappearing into his ass. He peeled his clinging, white shirt off, letting it join his pants on the floor. You relaxed your neck when you were inside him, the sheets wet and slippery beneath the two of you as he rode your cock, an ecstatic concentration on his face.  
  
And then you felt the prelude to his orgasm begin, felt his ass get even tighter, making your orgasm rise up out of you like a charmed snake. It made you twist like crazy inside to come like that, unable to hold onto him, to control any of it, the back of your hands pressed hard into the mattress, your back arching as your release came. There was nothing as wonderful as watching the intense pleasure on his face, the moments of being inside him after you’d come, of watching him jerk off on your chest, accompanied by a soundtrack of your pounding heartbeat and his hard breathing.  
  
……  
  
Time passed and your felt him unbuckle the cuffs again, felt him physically pry your almost-numb fingers off the rope, felt the comforter heavy over both of you as he laid down beside you.  
  
Your body curled around his and he pulled your arm around him, pressing your hand against his stomach as he held it.  
  
“Was it too tight?” he asked you, his question interrupted by a yawn.  
  
“What? Your ass?”  
  
He slapped your hand and laughed, “No, stupid, the cuffs.”  
  
“Nope. Just right.”  
  
He laughed when he felt you laughing, pulling the comforter almost over his head. The tree outside your window rustled in the wind, a random branch snapping off, hitting the side of the building on the way down. Your hand slid out of his, moved lower, and wrapped around the inside of his thigh.  
  
“Mmm.” And then he reached back, letting his fingers brush over your face, “I love you.” You urged him to tilt back a little and kissed him, and then he spoke again, “I hope you realize that my mother’s going to kill me for getting married without her knowledge.”  
  
You smiled, “I know. It’s every mother’s dream to see her gay son get married to a fiercely handsome millionaire who’s twelve years his senior.”  
  
“Who’s great in the sack.”  
  
“Even better.”  
  
He turned around in your arms, “If you tell anybody that I spent my wedding reception lying on top of a piano while people put cash by my head that I had to donate to charity, I’ll kill you.”  
  
“If I accidentally fuck up and tell someone that, then you can tell them that you tied me to the bed and fucked my brains out.”  
  
He seemed to be giving it some thought before he said, “Yeah, no one will believe that either.”  
  
…..  
  
He turned back around, both of you staring out the window; you kissed the back of his neck. Minutes passed in silence before he spoke again, “I never thought that this would happen.”  
  
“What?” You were focusing on his shoulder then, specifically the curve precipitating it.  
  
“That you’d wait for me. That you’d really be here when I wanted to come home.”  
  
You ran your lips along the length of his neck, right behind his ear, and asked in a quiet, low voice, “Where else did you think I’d be?”  
  
******************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
 _but he can’t be a man ‘cause he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me  
  
back in Atlantic City…_  
  
You didn’t know why you thought that this was going to be a kick ass evening when you were partying with Betty Crocker, Time Warp, and Emma Honeydewnot. And it was beyond you, so, so, far beyond you, why you were standing in a giant storage unit filled with nothing but vintage _Members Only_ jackets. Racks, and racks, and racks—as far as the eye could see.  
  
And the fact that while the four of you were strolling through this storage unit, Ruben had five thousand dollars that he won stuffed in his front left pocket, was really grating on you. You hadn’t even gotten your dick sucked.  
  
The situation had unfolded as such:  
  
The first thing you’d noticed when you and Gabe strolled back into the casino, was that Ruben had vacated the roulette wheel and had moved on to poker. Somehow he’d gotten himself into a game with the former mogul of the _Members Only_ patent. You watched as Emmett kept feeding Ruben one Hawaiian Punch after another, which Ruben had asked him to insinuate was Hawaiian Punch with vodka so that his hero across the table would think he wasn’t on top of his game. As far as you were concerned, if that dumb ass really believed that anybody would drink Hawaiian Punch and vodka, he deserved to lose all his money. Period.  
  
Why anyone, Kinney included, would hire a bartender that didn’t drink made no fucking sense to you. To you, a bartender that didn’t drink was like a prostitute who was celibate in her off hours. _Fucked up._  
  
Emmett was getting more and more excited as it became apparent that Time Warp was going to win, and watching Emmett try to curtail said excitement was like trapping a mud-colored hoppy toad in a long neck Coca-Cola bottle and watching it jump itself to death.  
  
 _Good times._  
  
Ultimately, the mogul (who was now a force to be reckoned with on Ebay and needed a haircut worse than Rube) didn’t have as much money as he needed to stay in the game, so he began to bargain with Ruben, dangling his nearby storage unit of every vintage _Members Only_ jacket that had died a much deserved, but early, death.  
  
When you brought Ruben to Atlantic City and told him he was going to score, no matter what, this was not what you meant.  
  
And Ruben’s excitement only offset Gabe’s existential angst as he stood against the wall of the storage unit with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a blank, empty look on his face.  
  
“What the fuck’s your problem?” you asked him, talking to your brother because you were tired of listening to Emmett’s ‘101 Ideas for Reviving the _Members Only_ Jacket as a Hot, Homosexual Couture Item.’  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Bull-fucking-shit.”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
Gabe’s mood swings were as predictable as Kinney’s twenty-something, blond trick selection every Saturday night at the club. You knew what Gabe’s problem was. And there was no way in hell you were going to listen to him whine about the one night stand he’d just had when, once again, you hadn’t even gotten your dick sucked.  
  
“Look, you did it; it’s over. Get over it,” you told him. _Be a man._  
  
“His cologne made me nauseous.”  
  
“Poor baby. His dick didn’t.”  
  
…..  
  
“I’m going outside,” Gabe declared.  
  
“Me, too,” you added, falling into step behind him, “This place smells like pleather.”  
  
“No, by myself,” he snapped back at you.  
  
“You don’t own the outside, asshole,” you reminded him.  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
You yelled to Ruben who was knee deep in a rack of some extremely rare, dark teal colored jackets. Apparently, it was the one he’d always wanted. “Rube! We’re going outside. Gotta smoke.”  
  
“ _Okay.”_  
  
Em followed the two of you with an overly concerned look on his face that made you want to smack him. So you stood there while Emmett probed Gabe for the cause of his melancholy mood, and Gabe finally quit being a total bitch and told him, “I just let some guy fuck me, and he was disgusting.”  
  
“Most men are disgusting,” you interrupted, “They’re _men._ If you want to fuck something hot and hygienic, fuck a chick, ‘Cakes.”  
  
“I don’t believe that,” Emmett said to you, with an offended look on his face, “I’m extremely hygienic.”  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” you told him, lighting your cigarette. “But you’re a girl anyway,” you added, blowing your smoke rather acutely in their direction.  
  
******************  
 _and you knew who you were then,  
girls were girls, and men were men_  
  
Your mother always told you that you were just like your father, and in your family, being compared to another family member wasn’t an insult.  
  
“ _You’re bullheaded and stubborn,”_ she would tell you, especially in your teens. “ _You’re just like your father.”_  
  
“ _Huh?”_ you father would yell from the kitchen of the restaurant or the living room, depending on your family’s locale at that particular moment.  
  
“ _Mama, those are synonyms and therefore redundant,”_ Gabe would add, and then you’d witness one of the few times your mother pelted your baby brother with a dish towel.  
  
 _Good times._  
  
“ _And you can’t focus on anything,”_ she’d continue, “ _Why do you need so many jobs?”_  
  
“ _I need money, Mama.”_  
  
“ _For beer.”_ She’d stare off into space for the rest of her lecture, absently washing the same pot over and over, “ _You know, your father was just like you. He had to do everything all the time--"_  
  
“ _Huh?”_  
  
“ _SHUT UP, I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU. Anyway, your father was just go, go, go,”_ and then she’d pause and then finish with a dreamy smile on her face, “ _Until he met me.”_  
  
You’d usually tune out at this point because the stories of ‘Mama the Miracle Worker’ tended to wear on you after a while. But the final result of years of these stories made you realize that you were just like your father; you were hard working, determined, outgoing, stubborn, and unable to concentrate on anything that didn’t bring you some sort of gratification in the next five minutes.  
  
Gabe, on the other hand, was just like your mother—committed, dependable, single-minded, sensitive, and a sucker for even a whiff of romance. Once in grade school, a girl gave Gabe a valentine, and he’d practically swooned from the gesture—not the girl. Both of your parents quite egregiously adored Gabe, and you found yourself looking out for him sometimes just to stay in their favor. It was strange at times, but it was how you were wired.  
  
When report cards came out, you’d stand behind him and a little to the right watching your parents revel in the pleasure their handsome, well-behaved son brought them with his excellent grades and glowing words from every teacher he had. You’d suck a little of this praise out of the air while this was going on, breathe it in, and hold it while it was your turn, nodding in agreement to, “ _These aren’t bad, Zeek. But you can do better.”_  
  
Then you’d regale your parents with two or three, “’ _I had to save Gabe’s life again today’_ stories,” to impress them and your brother knew what you were doing and never corrected your liberal embellishment of the truth.  
  
“ _You’re a good boy to look after your brother, Zeek,”_ your mother would always chime in, with that same dreamy look on her face as when she spoke of your father.  
  
In your family, how you spoke _of_ someone and how you spoke _to_ them we’re wholly different, but somehow the good and the bad seemed to balance out in the end.  
  
……  
  
So, you stood there smoking and half-listening to Emmett’s encouraging, but pointless, words to your brother, and waited for Rube to re-emerge, trying to figure out a way to talk him into using some of that five thousand dollars to get a couple hookers.  
  
A decent blow job couldn’t cost _that_ much.  
  
******************  
 **NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
 _never judge a book by it’s cover_  
  
You grew up in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire, and every once in a while your mother would get tired of The Rockford and everybody knowing how she spent every day of her life. When that happened, she’d load you and your older brother, Michael, into your environment-destroying Cadillac and take you shopping. In keeping with your heterosexual male upbringing, you hated shopping, but you loved those trips with your mother because of Sidney’s.  
  
Sidney’s was a restaurant at the far end of the shopping center that constantly reaffirmed your belief in the sheer joy life had to offer. When you walked into the restaurant, you were flooded with sensations—the deep red décor, the player piano that was always playing _The Entertainer,_ and the floor to ceiling bins of every type of candy you could ever imagine. A meal at Sidney’s was always your reward for behaving on your mother’s outings and not ever telling your father how much money she spent.  
  
And while the visual stimulation in Sidney’s was fantastic, you really wanted to go there because of their ice cream sundaes. Sidney’s advertised fifty flavors of ice cream and you could design any kind of sundae you wanted, as big as you wanted; the choices alone boggled your mind. And once your sundae had arrived, there was always the delicious task of trying to figure out exactly where the whip cream ended and the ice cream began. You’d always beg your mother to let you order the large sundae because they put two sugar wafers in the large one, and sugar wafers were unbelievable when they were just barely sticking out of the whip cream. It was a feast for your eyes and your stomach.  
  
On your way out of the restaurant, your mother would let you and your brother pick out one type of candy, and you both nearly always got bubble gum cigarettes. You and Michael would spend the entire trip home blowing powered sugar in each other’s faces and sneezing. Your mother always insisted that bubble gum cigarettes were much better than real ones, “ _Don’t forget that, boys.”_  
  
……  
  
Fucking Sarah was like being back in Sidney’s with so many choices; it made your head spin. The only difference was that fucking Sarah didn’t give you a stomach ache afterwards. If someone had been so nosy as to peek through your keyhole that night in your suite, they would’ve seen the new collar and leash Sarah bought you dangling from your neck and her fingers like the black licorice that was wound in the containers at Sidney’s.  
  
Delicious.  
  
You’d tried to talk Sarah into buying a candy leash once, but she decided it defeated her purpose if you could eat your way free.  
  
She teased you from her position overtop you wearing the other new thing she’d recently bought, a very sexy, black teddy. Her shoes had finally been discarded when she sat on top of you, and you rubbed the leather straps while she rode you. If there’d just been a player piano in the background, you’d have died and gone to heaven.  
  
You watched her hair slide backwards off her shoulders when she came, squeezing her knees as you added your orgasm to hers. She was so intoxicating to watch when she on top of you that you forgot all about the clamps on your nipples until she tugged the chain when her second orgasm overtook her.  
  
The numbing pressure you’d been enjoying turned into pain, and you pulled her down on top of you, kissing her, and begging her to let you go. She did—eventually.  
  
“The only nice thing about you being gone for two weeks,” she told you, lying in your arms, “Is that you’re such a good boy when you come back.”  
  
“I should be rewarded with a licorice leash.”  
  
She laughed, “No.”  
  
******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _I was dreaming when I wrote this,  
forgive me if it goes astray_  
  
Morning came awfully quickly that Saturday morning, your body waking up at its usual time, although your brain wasn’t quite as perky. You rolled on your side away from Justin and toward the television, your hand skimming the sheets for the remote. When you turned on the news, you muted it so as not to wake him and found you could read closed captioning so much easier from far away. The financial report would be on at six-o-five a.m.  
  
That night you’d dreamed about Justin’s side of the bed, about how it became official after he’d been bashed. The two of you had gone to bed one night ten years ago with Justin on your right side. Your eyes were closed as his hand ran over your chest; you got butterflies in your stomach as it moved lower. You were hard, your body calling for his attention. You smiled when you felt him touch you, stroke you, but then he stopped.  
  
“ _I’m sorry. I can’t.”_  
  
You thought he was freaking out again and opened your eyes, “ _What’s wrong?”_  
  
“ _I can’t,”_ he repeated, glancing down at his hand. It was shaking.  
  
“ _It’s okay,”_ you told him, “ _It’s okay. I’ll help you.”_  
  
You wrapped your hand around his, jerking off while he laid his head on your shoulder and watched, “ _It feels weird. My muscles feel like they’ve gone limp.”_  
  
“ _Just relax. You’re doing fine.”_  
  
You came seconds later, and then he laid his hand on your chest. You covered it and fell asleep. The next night, he took the other side of the bed, burying his right hand under his pillow, stroking you with his left. You never said anything else about it, knowing that sooner or later, it would work itself out.  
  
The next time he jerked you off with his right hand was after he returned from being with Ethan.  
  
A bastardized version of that night recurs often in your dreams, and that night at The Rockford you dreamed that he was trying again with his right hand, only he wasn’t a teenager anymore. He was a grown man, wearing the clothes he had on your first night on your honeymoon. You held his hand again, even though it wasn’t shaking, he wasn’t having trouble, and then looked at his face.  
  
His expression woke you up.  
  
There was enough light in the room that morning to see enough of his face, peaceful as it lay on his pillow. He was back on your right side, his right hand buried underneath his pillow, his left, ring and all, laying on his pillow beside his face.  
  
******************  
 _but something touched me deep inside_  
  
The market report didn’t start as it usually did that morning, a blue screen with various graphs and arrows designed to inform and fascinate you at the same time, to make the data look far more interesting than it ever was. The report started that morning with an anchorwoman, who reminded you of Erica, making an announcement. You read it as it scrolled up the screen:  
  
THE ATHLETIC APPAREL WORLD IS MOURNING THE  
DEATH OF LEO BROWN THIS MORNING.  
  
BROWN DIED OVERNIGHT OF CONGESTIVE HEART FAILURE AT HIS HOME  
  
IN CHICAGO.  
MANY THOUGHT OF BROWN AS ONE OF THE TRUE ARCHITECTS  
OF THE AMERICAN DREAM. HIS MODEST,  
  
CHICAGO BASED COMPANY TOOK OFF IN 2004 AND SOON BECAME A GLOBAL  
NAME IN SPORTSWEAR. BROWN ATHLETICS  
  
IS KNOWN FOR ITS INNOVATIVE, OFTEN DARING, ADVERTISING CAMPAIGNS  
THAT RAISED  
EYEBROWS AS WELL AS PROFIT MARGINS. RUMOR HAS IT THAT NATHANIEL ROCKFORD,  
BROWN ATHLETICS’ OPERATIONS MANAGER,  
  
WILL ASSUME CONTROL OF THE COMPANY IMMEDIATELY. NO WORD YET ON WHEN BROWN’S  
FUNERAL WILL BE. AND NOW, ON TO OUR WEEKLY RECAP OF THE  
MARKET WITH OUR OWN RICK FORESTER  
  
RICK?  
  
THANK YOU, LESLIE. AND GOOD MORNING  
TO YOU  
  
You turned off the television and reached over Justin to get your cell phone off of his nightstand.  
  
“I don’t wanna fuck right now,” he mumbled.  
  
“I’m not trying to fuck you. I need my phone.”  
  
His hand reached out from under the covers, picked it up, and handed it to you over his shoulder, “Here.”  
  
You took it from him and were beginning to cue Nate’s number when Justin rolled over, snuggled up to you, and laid his head on your chest. “How come you don’t wanna fuck me?” he asked, still half asleep.  
  
“Leo died last night.”  
  
He stopped running his hand between your legs and ran it through his hair instead, “Oh god, Brian. Shit.”  
  
……  
  
“Nate? It’s Brian.”  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Patsy Cline’s _She’s Got You_ , Marvin Gaye’s _Mercy Mercy Me_ , the Rolling Stone’s _Satisfaction_ , the _All in the Family_ theme song, Aerosmith’s _Dude Looks Like A Lady_ , Prince’s _1999_ , and Don McLean’s _American Pie_.


	23. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 20-Accelerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 2/7/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 20-ACCELERATE  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
 _the word is about,  
there’s something evolving_   


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
Leo Brown’s death had unintended consequences, and it was the second time that he’d interrupted a New England vacation with Justin.   
  
It triggered a string of events that continues to shape your life and affect your relationships even today. Predictability, or at least now you see it that way, the moments that meant nothing to you, the moments you barely remember, defined you in ways you never thought possible. You’d been many things in your life by the time you were pushing forty: a son, a brother, a player, a lightning rod, a bright star on the horizon of the advertising industry, a father, a super-hero, a teacher, a survivor, a lover, a reluctant crusader, a financial force to be reckoned with, a friend and a partner. You should’ve died from exhaustion long before then--or at least been in therapy. Ten years ago, when your policy of _work-party-fuck-sleep-repeat_ was working for you, you would’ve never imagined your life as it stands today, each of its pillars strong on their own, but even more formidable when joining forces.   
  
……  
  
You met Nate and Sarah downstairs for breakfast that Saturday morning and watched as Justin witnessed Nate’s fork-estra for the first time. His only comment about it came when the two of you were alone at the table for a few minutes, “Jesus, and I thought Michael couldn’t hold a spoon.”  
  
“I’m convinced that Debbie fed Mikey until he was ten,” you offered.  
  
“You’re probably right.”  
  
……  
  
Nate’s best guess was that Leo’s funeral would be Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. There were a lot of things that had to be coordinated—an official announcement to his employees seemingly the top thing on Nate’s mind during breakfast. You and Justin wound up in bed afterwards. You fucked him on all fours, your hands paying more attention to his body than your mind was. Admittedly, it was starting to wander.  
  
You were rough with him when you’d fucked him and could feel his body hardening against you, meeting you thrust for thrust. Justin sensed your detachment and lit a cigarette for you after you came, “Here.” You laid on your back, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.   
  
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked you. The way he asked the question meant he already knew the answer.  
  
“No,” you said anyway. And then you turned your head to look at him propped up next to you, “Though, now that we’re married, I feel like I have to.”  
  
He laughed a little, “You don’t.”  
  
You moved your gaze back to the ceiling, closing your eyes on the inhale, enjoying his hand rubbing up and down your stomach, focusing on how soothing his touch felt.   
  
……  
  
“Justin,” you said several minutes later, right as he was laying his head down on your chest.  
  
“I know,” he said quietly, “The honeymoon’s over.”  
  
********************  
 _she’ll be driving six white horses when she comes_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
There are always priorities in life. Some you choose and some that choose you. The game of life, the trick to it, is knowing which ones merit your attention.   
  
Nate and Sarah had matching Land Rovers in the garage at The Rockford; he willingly gave you the keys around dusk, when you and Justin had emerged from your room—fucked, shaved, and showered. The two of you had unwittingly skipped lunch, so you took Justin down the mountain for dinner at an unremarkable establishment that Nate assured you had ‘the best beef in Dixville.’ You were anxious to get out for awhile, to enjoy the last night of your honeymoon.  
  
“I’ll bet it feels really weird to be driving a car that doesn’t talk to you,” Justin pointed out to you as you drove off The Rockford’s property.   
  
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” He smacked you with the New Hampshire guidebook Nate had given him. “Ow, take it easy.”  
  
“Did you know that New Hampshire is ‘the granite state?” he asked you.  
  
“Well, that makes sense. I’ve been hard since I got here.”  
  
……  
  
“Oh my god, me too.”  
  
“Live free or die,” you added.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
  
********************  
 _this land is your land_   
  
Justin continued flipping through his book as you navigated your way along the narrow roads, “Okay, we’re in Coos County. Wow, Dixville is almost at the very top of the state.” He turned the book in your direction, as if you were going to take your eyes off the mountain roads while you driving Nate’s car, “See, New Hampshire is basically a triangle.”  
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
“I’ll take ‘shit I already know’ for five hundred,” you offered.  
  
He closed the book and put it in his lap, “Okay. I’m going to fuck you after dinner.”  
  
“Double or nothing?”  
  
********************  
 _I’ve got a yankee doodle sweetheart,  
she’s my yankee doodle joy_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
“So, what do you want to do after dinner?” Justin asked, as the waiter was pouring both of you a glass of the wine he’d recommended—a _1999 Castello Banfi Brunello di Montalcino._   
  
You waited until the waiter had left the table, “I want you to suck my cock in a homosexual entertainment establishment designed for such activities.”  
  
“Only if you eat your vegetables.” He took the bottle of wine from you while you were trying to read the label, “Here, let me.” He cleared his throat, “ _Impressive saturated ruby, extremely dark for Brunello. Brooding aromas of dark berry syrup and licorice; distinct hints of surmaturite. Then big, broad and extremely unevolved; highly concentrated but currently monolithic, and not really displaying its fruit. Finishes with big, chewy but ultimately rather fine tannins. Impressive in a modern style, but is this too solid for its own good?”_  
  
“No comment.”  
  
“That waiter wants to get in your pants. Your ‘extremely unevolved, high concentrated but currently monolithic’ pants.”  
  
“Because I’m not really displaying my fruit,” you added.  
  
“Your forbidden fruit.”  
  
“You’re so hot when you’re jealous.”  
  
********************  
 _ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall_  
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
“You’d think a town called Dixville Notch would have a bigger selection of gay clubs,” you said to Justin as you pulled up in the parking lot of The Rabbit Hole. You’d gotten the name from the waiter, who smiled a very big smile when you asked him if there was anywhere to ‘unwind’ in this town.   
  
“I can’t believe how that guy was practically throwing himself at you,” Justin remarked, and you raised your eyebrow at him and said,   
  
“Really? You can’t believe it? I seem to recall a time when—"  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
The Rabbit Hole reminded you less of a club and more of an early American gentlemen’s club, the kind that denied membership to women because no one was interested in fucking them. The street number on the outside of the club was 620 ½, which essentially meant that you had to enter the club through a single door and climb up a very narrow staircase. It was only when the two of you were at the top of the stairs that you saw the doorman and heard the music.  
  
“Thumpa thumpa,” Justin said, as if the music was the confirmation he needed of The Rabbit Hole’s validity. “Where’s the dance floor?”  
  
The doorman answered him, “See that long hall to the right of the bar?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Go down that hall, through the door, and you’re in it.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Where’s the fucking?” you asked. Priorities.   
  
“On the other side of the dance floor.”  
  
“Great.” And then you put your hand on Justin’s shoulder and pointed the way, “Onward ho.”  
  
********************  
 _all she wants to do is dance_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
The dance floor at The Rabbit Hole left a little to be desired. There was an okay sound system, no DJ, and lighting that seriously needed an upgrade. You tended to critique these things out of habit after owning a club yourself. But despite the lack of aesthetic, Justin was excited to be there, probably because he was getting some exercise in a standing position. The place seemed crowded, but you figured it was because you were used to Babylon. Justin pulled you to the middle of the floor and started to dance, his arms draped over your shoulders. It quickly became something much more than dancing, something that could best be described as ‘mobile molestation.’  
  
“ _Everybody in here wants you,”_ Justin whispered in your ear.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Too bad for them.”  
  
“Yeah, but ‘go me.’”  
  
He laughed, and you put your hands on his hips as he moved, letting your hands wander to his ass. Justin’s hand slid down over the front of your jeans, pleased that you were hard, “Mmm, best beef in Dixville.”  
  
“Let’s take it to the slaughterhouse, shall we?”  
  
********************  
 _doesn’t have to be sophisticated_   
  


[ ](http://tinypic.com)

  
  
The backroom at The Rabbit Hole was really just an unfinished hallway that they’d been kind enough to heat. There were men, very good-looking men in that all-American sort of way, lining both sides as you and Justin stepped inside. You followed him down the hallway until he found a free spot and then leaned against the wall, pulling him to you. His hands were in the back of your hair as you kissed him and they began to move down your torso. You widened your stance as he unbuttoned your jeans.  
  
Justin was always irresistible to you when he was on his knees, the way he’d always smile as he freed your cock from your pants. His hands were warm; his mouth was perfect. He teased you for a little bit, letting your cock rub the side of his face, around his jaw, his tongue quickly licking any wetness you had. When he finally opened his mouth, you let out a deep breath and put your hands on his head. His hair slid back and forth underneath them as he sucked, as he moaned around your cock, the vibration so sublime.   
  
It wasn’t uncommon for men to stare at you or him when you were fucking in public places, but their stares were particularly intense that night. But they weren’t looking at your faces, they were looking at your hands. At your rings. Probably thought the two of you were on the down-lo.  
  
Coming in his mouth was one of your non-so-guilty pleasures; you loved feeling his throat respond to you as you came. And then he stood with a mouthful of you and kissed you, letting it pour over your tongue.   
  
“ _Justin.”_   
  
He moaned into your mouth when you said his name. And then you turned him so his back was against the wall, so you could lean in and kiss him as hard as you wanted, closing your eyes as his hands ran underneath your shirt. It was everything you could do not to turn him around and fuck him, but the thought of wearing a condom seemed utterly unacceptable to you at that point. So, you opted for something else,   
  
“Wait here a minute,” you told him. He looked puzzled as he let go of you. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
********************  
 _land of the free,  
home of the brave_   


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
You exited the backroom, crossed the dance floor, and walked back into the bar. “Can I have one of these?” you asked the bartender.  
  
“Sure. That’s what they’re for.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
You rolled the commemorative Rabbit Hole rainbow flag up, stuck it in your back pocket, and headed back to the backroom. When you returned, there were a couple of guys trying to talk to Justin. They gave you an apologetic look as you approached and then walked away.  
  
“We just got invited to two orgies,” he told you.  
  
“The hospitality in this town in fucking unbelievable.”  
  
“I told them we were married, and they were completely un-phased.” You laughed. “So, then I clarified by saying that we were _monogamous._ ” He laughed and then whispered to you, “ _But they don’t believe me.”_  
  
You wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed him, “I have something for you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Wedding present.”  
  
“What is it?” he asked, his eyes starting to dance. He was so easy. “Tell me.”  
  
“Okay.” You released him and got down on one knee.  
  
……  
  
“Brian, what are you doing?”  
  
“Making it official,” you answered, pulling the flag out of your pocket and letting it unroll. He stared at it and then at you like you’d lost your fucking mind. You had the attention of every other man around you as well.   
  
You cleared your throat and held up the flag, “Justin Taylor, will you let me, Brian Kinney, in this sacred land of our forefathers, Dixville Notch, suck your cock in front of all these witnesses as a symbol of my eternal devotion to you?”  
  
He was embarrassed, hiding his face behind his hands for a few seconds, but when he realized that you were serious, he answered, “I will,“ and then added, “And will you, Brian Kinney, promise to swallow my entire cock?”  
  
“I will.”  
  
He held his flag up by his face, “Then by the power vested in me by the legend of Deep Throat, I now permit you to blow me.”  
  
A guy standing close by added, “ _Amen.”  
  
“Why can’t we get married?”_ someone asked his trick for the evening.  
  
“ _Because I just met you three days ago,”_ the man responded.  
  
“ _Oh yeah.”_  
  
Justin’s fingers wound tightly in your hair when you slipped your hand between his legs and started fingering him as he fucked your face, determined to give him an orgasm neither he nor his audience would ever forget. When he came, his hands spread and flattened on top of your head, pushing your face between his legs.  
  
……  
  
“Bet they believe me now,” he said as you stood, kissing him and buttoning him back up at the same time, his face smiling up at you.   
  
“Perhaps my little speech convinced them.”  
  
“Take me back up the mountain and fuck my brains out.”  
  
“That was the next activity on my itinerary.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
He waved his flag on the way out of the backroom and all the way home, “Brian, this is, hands down, the best honeymoon I’ve ever had.”  
  
“Pants down,” you corrected him. “You mean ‘pants down.’”  
  
“My bad.”  
  
********************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _and it's just like the ocean under the moon_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
The ride back up the mountain was beautiful, the trees in silhouette against a dark, bright sky. Nate’s car still smelled brand new, and Brian took his time as he drove. The images through your window were breathtaking at times, and you felt yourself tucking many of them away for when you were back in your studio. Any artist would be hard pressed not to find inspiration in New Hampshire. What interested you even more, though, was the juxtaposition of this place compared to New York or even Pittsburgh. Scenery, you decided, could make any place seem so simple; it never tells the whole story.  
  
There had to be people that lived here, that suffered here, that were unaffected by the beauty of their surroundings, just as there were city dwellers who were awe struck sometimes at a bird landing randomly on top of an idling taxi cab. That was what you wanted to paint—the intersection between expectations and reality.  
  
Perhaps that was why Brian was so often the subject of your work. There was an innate tension in his entire existence, a tension that kept him alive. Brian was often the point at which expectations and reality collided.  
  
Fucking him the night before when he was bound to the bed had launched a slide show in your mind that you wanted to sketch while you were still inside him: the muscles in his upper arms, the long lines of his body, his back flexing as he wrapped his fingers around the rope, his face as you penetrated him, arguing with desire.  
  
You turned from the window to look at him, relaxed as he drove, his legs apart, his left arm resting on the side of the door. You tucked your left leg under your right and turned in your seat so you could see him better. His right hand was at one o’clock on the steering wheel, the car going thirty-five miles an hour.  
  
It was hard for you to believe sometimes that he was yours. He could’ve had anyone he wanted.   
  
He shifted in his seat, stretching his left leg a little, smoothing his hand over his thigh, and then resting it back on the door. You could tell he wanted to smoke.   
  
The day before had been a new moon, so there was little light from Mother Nature. Each time a car passed, your head would turn, catching a glimpse of what its lights illuminated. The woods on either side of the road were black, making it look like miles and miles of trees were rooted in a lake of oil.   
  
You turned back around and watched out your window again, lost in the view until you felt Brian’s hand on your leg. It moved instinctively to be closer to him.   
  
“Are you cold?” he asked you.  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“Help me watch for the turn. It’s coming up.”  
  
“Okay.”   
  
…..  
  
Less than a minute later, the trees seemed to part, and you pointed to your right, “That’s it, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah, I think so.”  
  
You were ready to get back in bed. Somehow not fucking for almost three hours felt like an eternity. The other Land Rover wasn’t in the garage as you pulled back in; Nate and Sarah were out for the evening.  
  
********************  
 _the chills that you spill up my back  
keep me filled with satisfaction when we’re done_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
You didn’t waste any time once you were inside your room, pulling Brian into your arms, walking backward until you fell back on the bed with him on top of you. “I want you to fuck me.”  
  
There were clothes coming off, piece by piece, and you weren’t really sure whose were whose; you just knew that you were eventually naked underneath him, his body so warm.  
  
You were moaning in some sort of a loop, unable to stop as he kissed you, your fingers combing through the back of his hair. You could feel his hand on his cock, feel it pushing between your legs, needed him inside you immediately, “Brian.”  
  
He spread you with his thumbs as he pushed inside, and you dug your nails into his upper back. His arms looped under your knees as he fucked you, sending him so damn deep inside you that you wanted to take a bite out of him. Your restlessness wasn’t lost on him; he held you down.   
  
“You’re so fucking horny, Sunshine,” he said, his voice rough beside your ear. You moaned louder. “Goddamn, I love it when you get like this.”  
  
“Make me come.”  
  
His thrusts got harder against your legs, and you could hear him in your ear, “ _Justin... Justin… Justin.”_  
  
“ _Harder.”_  
  
He pinned you then, and you braced yourself for the torment you’d been begging for, for him to fuck your orgasm out of you like it was a demon that had to be exorcised. He fucked you so hard, you came and woke up in church.  
  
Naked and waiting to be baptized. _Brian Kinney. Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come.._  
  
“Holy mother of God, Brian, that was fucking fantastic.”   
  
You kissed the side of his face as he panted by your ear, “Marriage will be the death of me.”  
  
“But just think, if it is, you’ll be buried in my ass.”  
  
He raised his head up and looked you straight in the face, “That’s an excellent point,” and then collapsed on top of you again.  
  
“Thank you very much.”  
  
“My pleasure.”  
  
********************  
 _satisfaction of what’s to come_   
  


[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
“I think you’re ready,” Brian whispered a little while later, and your legs slipped off of him and fell open at the suggestion.  
  
“You do?”  
  
He was answering you wordlessly, pulling out, letting his fingers take his place inside you. He kissed his way down your body and when his mouth skimmed down your cock, you reached for the back of his head, pressing his face against you. You twisted his hair in your fingers as he ran the side of his face down the length, his tongue teasing your balls on the down stroke. He was torturing you, eventually moving his face along your inner thighs, pushing them back open as you tried to wrap your legs around his upper body. You had an overwhelming urge to crush him while having the shit fucked out of you again. But you arched instead, reaching for the headboard behind you, and gave in to him; knowing that resistance was beyond futile.  
  
The first time Brian ever brought up fisting with you was when he had cancer. The two of you were lying in bed after another failed love making attempt, and you were quiet that time, knowing that the more you said, the more you upset him. You wanted to tell him that it was fine with you, that you didn’t expect him to perform on command every night, but you knew that a conversation about how he over-identifies with his sexual prowess would not sit well with him at that moment. So you reached out for him and were surprised when he let you hold him, his head weighing heavily on your chest. He mentioned it to you almost in passing as he laid there, as if struggling for some way to keep you satisfied.   
  
As if you were even mildly unsatisfied.  
  
You thought about it for a minute and then declined, feeling like the time wasn’t right, that neither of you needed that kind of pressure. And then you left to work in the movies, and when you returned, the trust between the two of you was beginning to disintegrate and fisting was the last thing on your mind.   
  
But after he proposed for the second time, when you’d convinced yourself that he was serious, one of you would mention it now and again, and you knew that someday it would happen, when the time was right. And since the theme of your long-awaited return and crazy honeymoon seemed to be ‘expect the unexpected,’ you weren’t shocked when the subject came up again or that the suggestion wasn’t verbal. Since the second time you’d ever been with Brian, you realized that most of the things he said to you, he never actually said at all.   
  
And if he felt you were ready, you believed him, and more than that, you trusted him.  
  
“I want you on your back so I can see your face,” he said, and then he kissed you, slowly. “So I can keep an eye on you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Don’t move,” he told you as he rose from the bed. When he returned, you were staring at the ceiling when you felt it, the re-entrance of his fingers, gloved and generously slicked, and your mouth refusing to close at pressure of his knuckles.  
  
“ _Do it,”_ you whispered.   
  
The lights in your room were still on, and you thought about how ungodly beautiful Brian was as he knelt between your legs. He leaned forward a little and spoke to you, “I’ll stop whenever you want. Don’t let me hurt you.”  
  
“I won’t,” you told him, as he bent his forehead to yours and then kissed you before returning to his sitting position. “Just go slow.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Brian’s voice was reassuring as he pressed on the back of your thighs, gently pushing them up, “There you go.” And then you felt him further inside you, listening to his voice rain down all over you, accompanying the light show that was starting behind your eyes. “God, this is so fucking hot, Justin. Jesus.”  
  
“Uh.”  
  
Your eyes would open now and then just to take in the sight of him watching you, to catch his eye and smile some sort of inadequate appreciation for the pleasure he was bringing you, any pain that came with it overshadowed by the emotions flooding your body. You told him you loved him, and he smiled.  
  
There were competing sensations pumping through you then, a tingling that you couldn’t pin point at any one place in your body, and a permeating sense of determined calm, that at any other moment in your life would’ve felt like a paradox. You were having a conversation with him, but your words seemed to float away before you could remember what they were.   
  
His words began to feel abstract to you, but you knew your body was obeying him, the tone of his voice conveying that over and over.  
  
“Open up for me, Justin.”  
  
You knew the fact that Brian had fucked you about a million times since you’d come home was making this possible, and you moaned his name when the rise of his thumb pushed past your final resistance, your breathing becoming shallow and in pace with the pink streaks bouncing behind your eyelids.  
  
Brian asked you to open your eyes and look him, and when you did, you saw him so tall in front of you, felt his knees pressing against the back of your thighs. You smiled and he smiled back, rubbing the back of your leg.   
  
“Okay?” he asked you.  
  
“I did it?” It seemed like a stupid question, but you needed to hear him say it.  
  
“I’m looking at my wrist,” he told you, and just hearing that made your body tense around it. “Whoa, don’t get nervous on me now.”  
  
“Sorry.” Your voice was so quiet you could barely hear it. “What’s it feel like?”   
  
“Tight.” You smiled at him when he said that, your right hand coming down, reaching for your cock. He held your hand. “And very warm. And wet.” You squeezed his fingers as you held them. “Tell me how you feel.”  
  
“I can’t describe it physically. It’s really weird…I just love you. God, I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too,” he said, moving his hand to his cock. You watched him stroking himself, wanting to be doing it for him. “You’re making me so fucking hard, Sunshine.”  
  
You felt his fingers start to move very slowly, and you froze, relaxing again when he reminded you to, trying not to imagine them curling inside you. Your eyes flitted back to the ceiling as you concentrated on just the sensation created by the movement, not the mental image that came with it.  
  
“Oh god.”  
  
A pressure began to rise inside you.  
  
“S’okay, you’re gonna come.”  
  
……  
  
A tremoring sensitivity to everything you’d ever known, every smell, every color, every sound.   
  
“Oh fuck.”  
  
Every feeling you’d ever had, every picture you’d ever seen, or drawn, or painted.  
  
……  
  
“Just let it go.” And then as if in response to a question you might’ve asked, “I’m right here, Justin. Right here.”  
  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
……  
  
And then it burst, an almost bewildering force that fought to be set free, your body twisting in on itself in response to it.   
  
“ _Holy fuck,_ ….I can’t.. be… still.”  
  
“You’re not moving. You’re okay.”  
  
……  
  
“No, I’m shaking.”  
  
“Look at me, Justin.” Your eyes opened again on his command. “You just feel like you are. You’re not; you’re fine. Try to breathe.”  
  
You did, and it surprised you. And then you sighed, aware of your body again, a ridiculously content feeling spilling everywhere inside you. Endorphins.  
  
So underrated.  
  
……  
  
“Gonna pull out, now. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” you said, unsure if you were really okay with it at all.  
  
“Tell me if I’m hurting you at all and I’ll stop.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Brian’s free hand rested between your legs as he slowly pulled out, reassuring you the entire time. As the widest part of his hand slid out of you, your body made a funny slurping sound that almost made you laugh. Your feet fell to either side of Brian’s legs when he was out, an empty sadness pouring over you that surprised you.   
  
Brian leaned down to kiss you, “Hey, come on now. I’ll be right back. Gotta clean up.”  
  
You tried to blink away the tears in your eyes, “Okay.” You watched him walk toward the bathroom, turn on the sink, and then return with a washcloth and two clean towels.  
  
He cleaned you as you lay there completely spent, covering the sheets with towels, and then returned to the bathroom to wash his hands again. You wiped your eyes when he flicked off the lights and watched his dark form make its way back to the bed. He stopped once, reaching into his suitcase, and then returned to you.  
  
“You okay?” he asked quietly as you pulled your legs up and rolled on your side, a reaction to the cramping that was starting. “Talk to me. You’re hurting?”  
  
“Yeah.” You knew you were shaking for real this time. Brian’s arms wrapped around you, almost cradling you, his thumb wiping the tears that seemed to be flowing without purpose down your face. “I’m crying,” you told him, as if he needed the update.  
  
“I know. It’s okay. You’re just overwhelmed.” Your teeth began to chatter and Brian’s hand pressed your face against his chest, kissing your forehead as you tried to stop trembling. “S’okay. I’ve got you.”  
  
You whispered into his chest, “My stomach’s all crampy.”  
  
“I knew you’d start your period if we did this.”  
  
You laughed, which made it hurt even worse, “Don’t. Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
“Swallow this,” Brian told you, handing you two white pills and some water.   
  
“What was that?” you asked, after you swallowed it.  
  
“Dr. Brian’s Secret Fisting Remedy.” You laughed again, as he pulled the covers up over both of you, the feeling of being held against his warm body seeming to ease the pain.  
  
“As long as it wasn’t Tylenol.”  
  
“Oh shit.”  
  
“Very funny.” You held Brian’s right hand between yours, pressing it against you, and told him, “Let’s have breakfast in bed in the morning, okay? Maybe The Rockford has a post-fisting menu.”  
  
He tucked his head and kissed you, his hand brushing your hair off of your face, “A picture of my cock? I doubt it.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s copyrighted.”  
  
Brian laughed, signing your name in the air, “Yeah, ‘Justin Taylor, 2000.’”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Still hurting?” he asked you a few minutes later, his voice soft in your ear.  
  
“Stuff’s working,” you told him, feeling a calming, medicated fog come over you.   
  
“Good.”  
  
……  
  
Minutes later, you heard the television flip on and knew that Brian was watching the news.   
  
“ _The Northeast can look forward to February-like temperatures for the rest of the week, Paula…”_  
  
You smelled cigarette smoke as you drifted off to sleep.  
  
  
  
Painting is _N.H Winters_ by [Monique Sakellarios.](http://www.moniquesakellarios.com/galleryII_page4.htm) Other images taken from Google Images. Icon of man with present behind his back made by [](http://br0kenicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**br0kenicons**](http://br0kenicons.livejournal.com/). Lyrics from The Propellerheads featuring Miss Shirley Bassey’s _History Repeating_ , _She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain,_ author unknown, Woody Guthrie’s _This Land Is Your Land,_ George M. Cohan’s _Yankee Doodle, Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer On the Wall,_ author unknown, Don Henley’s _All She Wants to do is Dance,_ Groove Terminator’s _Here Comes Another One,_ _The Star Spangled Banner_ written by Francis Scott Key, Rob Thomas w/ Santana _Smooth,_ and Deee-Lite’s _Groove Is In the Heart_ twice.


	24. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 21-Intersections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 2/29/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 21-INTERSECTIONS  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_I believe we place our happiness in other people’s hands_  
  
Sometimes in life, you play the hand you’re dealt. As much as you want to think that you’re in control of your own destiny, you often find yourself at the mercy of others—for better or for worse.  
  
For some reason that Saturday night, as you held Justin while he slept, you thought of Gus, and how you used to watch him sleep when he was a baby. Your son was eleven then, most of your interactions with him consisting of chats and emails and the occasional, random text message:  
  
_I HATE MOM. I HATE GIRLS. COME GET ME. PLZ_  
  
And the one that usually followed that one:  
  
_PLZZZZZZZZZZZZZ IN A LIMO_  
  
You thought about Gus as you let Justin’s hair slide between your fingers. You thought about Lindsey, about how you missed her. You thought about Michael, about the very different paths your lives had taken.  
  
You thought about how you weren’t going to tell Justin that you’d just watched a late, commercial-free, showing of _Dirty Dancing,_ or that you still over-identified with Patrick Swayze when he refused to put Baby in a corner.  
  
_’Justin, are you coming?’_  
  
……  
  
You thought about Leo Brown, how if it wasn’t for him agreeing to hire you and insisting that you be made partner… you might not be the man you’d become.  
  
_”Last month I'm eating Jujubes to keep alive, and this month women are stuffing diamonds in my pocket…”_  
……  
  
You thought about how it had to be witchcraft that made it possible for you to get your _entire hand_ in Justin’s ass.  
  
You thought about that _a lot._  
  
_"You just put your pickle on everybody's plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me."_  
  
……  
  
And then Justin began to stir, conveniently as the credits were beginning to roll, and you released him, lest he awake and violently accuse you of cuddling.  
  
**********************  
_this overload_  
  
The affection Justin showered you with when he awakened was so potent and erotic that it was most likely illegal everywhere but New Hampshire. You let yourself really enjoy it, listening to his quiet voice as he pressed himself against you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw line, _”That was the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had.”_  
  
“I know; I could feel it,” you told him. “Are you still having cramps?”  
  
He laughed, “No, my period’s over.”  
  
“That’s a relief because I was not going to the store to buy you tampons.”  
  
“We’re married,” he reminded you, “You’re at my beck and call from now until eternity.”  
  
“Why do I feel like I got the raw end of that deal?” you asked him, his arm wrapping around your waist as he got comfortable again.  
  
“Was that a joke?”  
  
You thought about it, “Probably.”  
  
“It better be.”  
  
……  
  
He wanted to know what it felt like for you when you fisted him, so you tried to explain that feeling him come like that, around your hand, felt like you were restraining him inside out. “It was this unbelievable force that had no where to go.”  
  
“I loved it. It was amazing.”  
  
You kissed him; your mouth wandering all over his upper body as he moaned in response. And then, he announced that he was falling asleep again, urging you back up to your pillow. You wrapped your arm around him, keeping him next to you, smiling as he whispered before dozing off again, “ _You know what?”_  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ve had a really good time here.”  
  
“Me, too.”  
  
“I mean, you _could_ say that I’ve had the time of my life….and I owe it all to you….”  
  
“Cut that out or you’re going back in the corner.”  
  
……  
  
You had to admit that you’d never pictured yourself as the doting husband or even a remotely attentive partner, but if that’s the hand you were dealt, then you were ready to call. But first, you’d fall asleep with your winning hand, both of you oblivious to the repaired painting hanging over your heads.  
  
……  
  
That night you dreamed that it was Justin, and not Chris, who fell out of the lift three years ago—only it was a ski lift. His body had an almost rag doll-like quality to it as it plummeted to the ground, landing on Leo’s coffin.  
  
The paramedics were somehow there before you even called them, and you chased the ambulance, barefoot in the icy snow, all the way to the hospital, only to find out that Sarah was at the wheel. When they flew open the back doors, you fell to the ground, pounding it when you realized that they had the wrong guy.  
  
Leo.  
  
Not Justin.  
  
And then you opened your hands and stared at them. There was a crushed playing card in one of them.  
  
The two of hearts.  
  
The wild card.  
  
**********************  
_these arms of mine_  
  
The flight home on Sunday was almost as quiet as the flight to New Hampshire a few days earlier. Justin seemed none the worse for wear after having your whole hand up his ass, and, oddly enough, you found yourself respecting him in a whole new way. You didn’t fuck him that morning, telling yourself that he didn’t really seem interested, but, in truth, you were paranoid that since you were able to get your whole hand inside him, your dick might disappear in there, too, never to return. According to Theodore, ‘magical castration’ was the neurosis of choice for men who had it all—wealth, power, love, and an indulged libido. (He was probably just bullshitting you because you couldn’t find anything on the ‘net to back up his assertion.)  
  
That night, after getting home, unpacking, and settling back in, the two of you sat in bed (nude) with Justin propped between your legs, leaning back against you. Both of you proceeded to get stoned while simultaneously making your grocery list. (That week’s delivery alone cost five hundred dollars. It was one of the many lessons in life you’d learn the hard way.) When Justin wrote ‘milk’ on the list, you remembered, “You know, we have a CD that teaches you how to use the fridge.”  
  
He titled his head up you and said, “You want me to do a _tutorial_ to learn how to use a _refrigerator?”_  
  
“Sure, why not?” was clearly the wrong answer.  
  
……  
  
Justin offered to give you a massage, and you took him up on it, warning him not to get any grandiose ideas when you felt his hands on your ass, “Please keep in mind that my ass is not as accommodating as yours.”  
  
“I have a tutorial you can take.”  
  
“Less tutoring and more rubbing.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
His hands left your body for a second, and when they returned, he’d apparently decided not to extend you the courtesy of warming the goddamn lotion.  
  
“Okay, now you’re gonna get it, Sunshine.”  
  
“Ooh, I hope so.”  
  
**********************  
_I heard it through the grapevine_  
  
Work on Monday ended up being a lot of action with very little payoff. You expected the familiar challenge of playing catch up, the ‘how was your weekend’ small talk, but you forgot to factor in the ring on your finger. Right before lunch, Cynthia sauntered into your office, apparently sent as the sacrificial representative of the Kinnetik Nosy-Ass Delegation (KNAD).  
  
“Can I help you?” you inquired, already kicking yourself at that point for giving her an in.  
  
“What’s up with the ring? Everyone wants to know.”  
  
_“Everyone_ should be working,” you pointed out, perhaps cranky due to your off kilter ‘fuck-to-sleep’ ratio.  
  
“They can’t concentrate,” she informed you. “The shiny thing on your finger is distracting them.”  
  
“I got married.”  
  
“To Justin?”  
  
“No, to Captain Kangaroo.”  
  
……  
  
She seemed to be experiencing some sort of excitement in a radically contained manner. And then the containment procedure abruptly failed, causing her to perform a single bounce-and-squeak on her tip toes, “Oh my god, congratulations.”  
  
……  
  
Lunch on Monday was the same as every Monday—a working lunch--working out at the gym with Theodore, Gabe, and Rube, who never did anything but jump rope. Turns out that Rube and his twin sister, Reed, were the double Dutch champions of Crookston, Nebraska—a small, Midwestern town famous for its reputation as a ‘semi-ghost’ town. Reed went on to compete in international jump roping competitions while Rube decided instead to concentrate on his juggling lessons. (He was right in thinking that juggling had more of a future. Today, Reed Dressler is a proud, and very fit, minimum wage worker at ‘Petals to the Metal,’ a local florist in Crookston.) Sometimes you marveled at Rube’s success in life, finding it difficult to understand how a man who took spiritual advice from a ‘Magic 8 Ball’ always landed on his feet.  
  
You were strangely grateful that your minions were smart enough to go away for the weekend when you were out of town because you would’ve driven yourself insane wandering around Babylon watching your second string trying to run the place.  
  
And when Gabe went to get some water, Ted informed you that Rube wasn’t the only one to get lucky in Atlantic City that weekend, “You’ll _never_ believe who Gabe hooked up with.”  
  
“Somebody from the mob,” you offered.  
  
“No, try _Jeffrey Pendergrass._ ”  
  
It took you a minute to place the name and then you grinned like a cheetah who’d just spotted wounded prey, “And to think, _you_ used to be the most desperate person I knew, Theodore.”  
  
When Gabe returned from refilling his water bottle, the three of you immediately dropped the subject. Gabe never fared well when being teased, and you were more interested in his money-making abilities than the serious verbal harassment he clearly deserved for having such bad taste in tricks.  
  
…….  
  
The conversation turned to what Rube did with his five thousand dollars after you suffered through the entire story of the ‘poker game turned eighties fashion memorabilia in a freezing cold warehouse.’  
  
“He put all of us up in the most expensive hotel we could find on foot and then gave Zeek five hundred of it to get laid,” Gabe reported.  
  
Zeek was _paying_ for sex? Your day was getting better and better.  
  
“He brought me back two hundred and twenty though,” Rube added thoughtfully, as though it was a wonderful memory he cherished.  
  
You asked for clarification, “Okay, so Zeek paid two hundred and eighty dollars for a hooker?” That seemed ridiculously cheap, not that you would know…  
  
“Two fifty and he tipped her,” Rube chimed in again.  
  
And before the accountant in Ted could ask for the breakout, Gabe offered it, “Two hundred for the fuck, and an extra fifty for the blow job.”  
  
This was definitely one of the most productive lunch meetings you’d ever had. And to think, you really didn’t want to get out of bed that morning…  
  
“Since when does Zeek solicit itemized sex?” you asked. (It was your understanding from years of listening to Zeek boast about his frequently coddled cock that pieces of ass appeared out of thin air and just bent over whenever he had an urge.) Ted was nodding as you asked, as if you’d just beat him to the question of the hour.  
  
“Since he wore his _I’m With Stupid_ t-shirt,” Gabe answered matter-of-factly. “Tends to keep the more attractive and available pieces of ass at bay.”  
  
Which is precisely why you stick with high-end labels….  
  
**********************  
_lately I’ve been feeling strange,  
maybe it’s ‘cause of my wicked ways_  
  
Ruben ran to get lunch while the three of you showered and dressed in the locker room, and you took the opportunity to corner Theodore and set him straight while Gabe was trying to decide if he should pluck his nose hairs, “I just want you to know that that ‘magical castration’ thing you told me is total bullshit.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“It’s bullshit. There’s no such thing.”  
  
“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “I read about in _Psychology Today._ ” His voice rose at the end of his sentence, like it always did when he was trying to convince you of something.  
  
“You did not.”  
  
“Did, too.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“Why are you suddenly worried about your dick, Bri?”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“You are or you wouldn’t be asking.”  
  
Theodore’s head began to look like a giant zit that just needed to be popped, which made you look at your hands, which made you remember your hand disappearing into Justin’s ass….goddamnit. Up until that moment, you would’ve never given any credence to the idea that accountants can put a curse on you.  
  
You glanced over at Gabe who’d decided to embark on his nasal mission and was therefore sufficiently occupied and then turned back to Ted, “I fisted Justin.” You weren’t exactly sure at the time why you were telling anyone this information. Later, after he recovered from you divulging aspects of your sex life to people who weren’t a part of it, Justin would explain to you (during a sexual encounter with him that was particularly memorable because he was simultaneously horny, drunk, and philosophical) why you did it: _”See, before, you fucked anyone and everyone in plain sight of the greater Pittsburgh gay male population.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“So you were able to consistently perpetuate the image of yourself as a well-oiled sex machine.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“But now, you only fuck me and not in public because we do it raw, so nobody gets to see you being a well-oiled sex machine anymore.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So you tell people shit that is our personal, sexual business because—"  
  
“I’m completely insecure?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“And if you do it again, you’ll have no use for that jumbo box of extra-long latex gloves I bought you.”  
  
“Yes, dear.”  
  
“So we understand each other?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good, now I want you to fist me.”_ And with that, he flopped down on the bed on his back. “ _Get to work.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Yeah, now.”  
  
“Is this punishment for my indiscretion?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Please sir, may I have another?”_  
  
......  
  
Ted immediately looked at your hand in shock, “You did?”  
  
“Yeah, it was really hot, but sort of spooky.”  
  
“Did he like it?” Ted asked, looking as if it really could’ve gone either way. _Amateur._  
  
“Of _course,”_ you responded, sounding like Zeek, but refusing to make that correlation.  
  
Ted stared at his own hand, mumbling as the three of you exited the locker room, Gabe completely unaware of what he was alluding to, “Seems like that somehow defies the laws of physics.”  
  
“Yeah, and if anything happens to my dick, Theodore, you’re a dead man.”  
  
**********************  
_believe half of what you see,  
and some or none of what you hear_  
  
“So tell us about your _honeymoon_ ,” Rube asked as the four of you lunched in the conference room.  
  
“Yes, tell us _everything,”_ Ted prodded. You kicked him hard under the table. “ _Asshole.”_  
  
“I want to know what Nate’s resort is like,” Gabe added. You tried to explain to them that if flea markets could fornicate, their offspring would be The Rockford.  
  
Rube’s response was, “Coolness. I love flea markets.”  
  
“Weren’t you born at one?” you asked him.  
  
“No,” he responded, “Just conceived. There were no booths available after my parents’ long journey through the desert.” He licked the tip of his index finger and drew a ‘one’ in the air, accompanying it with a sizzle.  
  
“So our campaigns for them have been successful?” Ted asked.  
  
“That place is always packed,” you told him, “Makes money hand over fist.”  
  
Theodore choked on a tomato.  
  
……  
  
“You two didn’t ski?” he wanted to know when he’d recovered.  
  
“We fucked, ate, and slept.”  
  
“Coolness,” Rube repeated.  
  
“Stop it, you’re gagging me with a spoon,” you told him.  
  
“As if,” he replied.  
  
You put your foot down, “No more Dr. Pepper for you. I’m cutting you off.”  
  
“I’m, like, so totally sick of you right now, ohmygod.”  
  
……  
  
And so you continued your conversation with the three wise men, the subject veering to Leo’s death, Nate’s imminent takeover of Brown Athletics, what that meant for Kinnetik. Ted was quite visibly pleased to hear the news about Nate.  
  
“And now that Nate is taking over Brown, we’ll be primarily dealing with his wife, Sarah, on The Rockford’s campaign.”  
  
“I’ve never met his wife,” Ted informed you.  
  
“She’s an artist and a singer and quite possibly a dominatrix.”  
  
Ted seemed a little too intrigued, “No way.”  
  
“Way.”  
  
“What did Justin think of her?” he asked.  
  
“Doesn’t like the artist part, is impressed by the singer part, and absolutely terrified of the other part.” You’d gotten a tour of Nate’s entire floor at The Rockford before you left, and while Justin was wandering around Sarah’s studio with her, admiring her pottery wheel for some reason, you opened a door that you thought was a closet.  
  
It wasn’t.  
  
You waited until you were safely in the air before you told Justin, “ _Um, I think Nate’s pussy whipped.”  
  
“Why? Because he adores his wife?”  
  
“Well, there’s adoration and then there’s  servitude.”  
  
“Forget it, Brian. I’m not going to be your slave.”_ (Justin had this insidious way of answering you with what he _thought_ you meant, rather than what you were actually saying.)  
  
_”I accidentally stumbled into their dungeon.”  
  
“Right. Accidentally.”  
  
“Whatever, I’m just saying…you’re just lucky she didn’t string  you up in her little shop of horrors.”  
  
“And what? Flog me with her paintbrush?”  
  
“Hmm…”_  
  
He’d proceeded to open his in flight magazine with a flourish and roll his eyes at you in that way that always made your seat belt too tight.  
  
**********************  
_in the still of the night_  
  
You woke Justin up early Tuesday morning around four a.m. because you had to fly to Chicago for Leo’s funeral. “ _Sunshine,_ ” you whispered quietly next to his ear. He didn’t respond until you said it again, covering his ear with his hand.  
  
In a delayed reaction in less than half a minute later, he rolled onto his stomach, his sleepy face turned in your direction, “Mmm, ‘kay,” reaching out to touch your chest when he heard the click of the lube bottle.  
  
The fuck you shared was as sleepy as the two of you, and you spent the majority of it just being inside him, listening to his muffled moans, his head sunk into his pillow.  
  
Your car arrived at exactly five a.m.  
  
**********************  
_if you start me up,  
I’ll never stop_  
  
The flight to Chicago was packed, and as was typical, didn’t have enough leg room. You’d hoped that since it was a Tuesday morning, rather than a Monday, that you’d be able to sit alone in first class. But that wouldn’t be the case. You were joined by an obnoxious breeder whose tie was too wide and whose pants were too short.  
  
And whose socks—the wrong color.  
  
You opened your briefcase to retrieve a CD of a presentation you wanted to review when something dropped out of it and onto the floor at your feet.  
Your neighbor was more than pleased to pick it up for you, “Here you go, buddy. You dropped this.”  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
You smiled, tucked it back in your briefcase, and began trying to review the presentation so as to appear unbelievably busy. You’d hoped it would deter conversation with your ‘buddy’ who was obviously a St. Bernard in another life. But the gods of _leave me the fuck alone_ must’ve been on a smoke break at that moment.  
  
“Married, huh?” he asked, obviously gifted in the powers of observation.  
  
“Yeah,” you said, not looking up from your keyboard.  
  
……  
  
“How long?” But before you could answer, he continued, “Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He pondered the question as if it was the final round on Jeopardy, he was in the lead, and the prize was a brand new wardrobe and somebody to bug the fuck out of all the way to Chicago. “Less than a year, right? Am I right?”  
  
“More or less.”  
  
“I knew it. Wanna know how I knew?”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Notes in your briefcase. No wife does that after the first year.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah, take it from me. I’ve been married going on seven years now, and I haven’t gotten a love note in at least six and a half.”  
  
“My condolences.”  
  
……  
  
He shifted in his seat, put his tray down, put it up again, and then, “So, you flying for work or pleasure?” The guy was giving the phrase ‘non-stop flight’ a whole new meaning.  
  
“Funeral,” you replied, trying to look overcome with grief so he’d back off.  
  
……  
  
It silenced him for about twenty seconds before he began again, “You travel a lot for work?”  
  
“’Bout twice a month.”  
  
And then he leaned toward you and lowered his voice, the scent of his out-dated cologne coming with him, “Let me tell you something about traveling when you’re married.” He stopped, cleared his throat, and then continued, “It’s worth it, buddy, ‘cause when you get home from being away, even if it’s just for a day, she’ll be all over you like a pig in shit.”  
  
(For once, something that _didn’t_ turn you on.)  
  
You smiled a smile that only appears disingenuous to people who really know you, “Really?”  
  
“Oh hell yeah, buddy. And coming back from a funeral? That alone is worth a fuck and a suck, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You made a mental note to remind Justin.  
  
……  
  
“Hell, sometimes I travel just so I can have the ‘welcome home’ fuck. Know what I mean?” Unfortunately, you knew exactly what he meant because since Justin had come back, you’d been wearing out his welcome three times a day.  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“I tease her, you know. Tell her that I have to fly today because we’re having a mandatory meeting of the Mile High Club.” He laughed, rather pleased with himself. Reminded you of a pig in shit.  
  
“You’re their mascot?” you asked sincerely.  
  
“I _wish._ You ever done that? You know, been to one of those meetings?” He almost winked at you.  
  
“I’m the Treasurer.”  
  
He stared at you with a dumbfounded respect that he must use when he’s selling ‘the only vacuum you’ll ever need’ to desperate housewives.  
  
“For real?”  
  
“Absolutely. And you haven’t paid your dues.”  
  
He seemed as if he was searching for an excuse as to why he hadn’t and then, “Oh, I get it. You almost had me there, buddy.”  
  
“Gee, my loss.”  
  
An unsettled expression began to spread over his face as you put your un-reviewed presentation back in your briefcase. A flight attendant approached to quench your thirst. You asked for a bottle of water, and so did he as if he was afraid to have something other than what you were. You were sliding your glasses back into an interior pocket when they wouldn’t go in. You dropped them in the main compartment and pulled out what was blocking them--a small Ziploc bag full of candied walnuts. You new pal nearly dribbled water all over his pants because he was too busy reading over your shoulder:  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
You grinned at no one in particular and popped one in your mouth, just in time for the attendant to ask you if you wanted a bag of peanuts. You took it from her and then handed it right to your airborne acquaintance, “Here. I’ve got my own.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.” _Literally_  
  
The two of you chewed in silence while you stared out the window at the clouds and at the tiny world below you.  
  
**********************  
_I’m not the man they think I am at home_  
  
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” and he was at it again. You nodded, keeping your gaze on the sky. “So, you got kids?”  
  
“One.”  
  
“Me, I’ve got three—two girls and a boy who’s the youngest…and my wife coddles him big time. I told her the other day, I said, ‘You gotta cut that out, honey. Kids gonna grow up to be a limp wrist, if you know what I mean.”  
  
You turned then, and looked right at him, “I know exactly what you mean.” He seemed to take your answer as an affirmation of your mutual masculinity. It muted him long enough for you to really think about all of the things you needed to be doing that day but couldn’t because of Leo’s funeral. Your week was going to be compressed and hectic when you returned.  
  
……  
  
As the plane began to descend, the cat let go of his tongue, “So, what’s your name? Mine’s Pete. Pete Adcock.” He handed you his business card:  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
Figured the guy sold shit for a living, but you had to admit they had a catchy slogan, “Name’s Kinney.”  
  
“Well, feel free to give me a call if you have any issues with your grass or your trees or your soil.” He scribbled his cell phone number on the back of the card for you. “Don’t bother putting it on the front; it changes all the time, you know?”  
  
_”Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Windy City. It’s certainly living up to its reputation today. Temperature is forty-eight degrees, the wind chill making it feel like about thirty-five. Looks like we’re first in line for landing; please remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop. We’d like to thank you for flying United Airlines, non-stop Pittsburgh to Chicago, and we hope you have a wonderful day.”_  
  
You locked your briefcase after securing your laptop and turned your cell phone back on. He cornered you when it was time to disembark, a serious disadvantage to having a window seat,  
  
“It was nice to meet you Kenny --?”  
  
“O’Brien,” you told him without a moment’s hesitation. “Kenny O’Brien.”  
  
“Well, Kenny, if you and your wife are ever in Philly, give me a call. Love to have you two over for dinner.”  
  
You laughed as you yanked your bag out of the overhead compartment, “Thanks. I’ll run it by him. He has a really good recipe for chocolate chip and walnut cookies.”  
  
Pete looked momentarily taken aback, and then his brain began to process again, “That was a good one, buddy. You almost had me there.”  
  
“You’d know if I had you, trust me.”  
  
**********************  
_well February made me shiver_  
  
Leo’s funeral was well attended. You met up Nate with outside the church, the two of you bundled up to battle the windy day. After you’d both peeled off your coats, scarves, and gloves, you complimented him on his suit,  
  
“You picked out a nice one.” You could smell licorice on his breath. Meant he was nervous.  
  
“Yeah, I like it,” he told you. “And Sarah _really_ likes it.” You laughed.  
  
“I’ll bet.”  
  
You rode with Nate to the cemetery, the two of you in the back of a limo that was far too luxurious for the occasion. There were only about twenty people on hand to actually see Leo go into the ground. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. They all seemed to know Nate.  
  
As the service ended and everyone was saying their hellos and good-byes, Nate told you that he was meeting Leo’s attorney at the Harvard Club, “And you’re welcome to join us for a late lunch. We’ve got loose ends we need to tie up.”  
  
“I haven’t been there since I made my first pitch to Leo,” you told him.  
  
“Well, then it’s the perfect closure, right?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess so. Their prime rib is fantastic.” Grief was making you hungry.  
  
**********************  
_the long and winding road  
that leads to your door  
will never disappear_  
  
The Harvard Club’s décor hadn’t changed much in almost a decade, the red leather chairs still surrounding every table, the occasional cigar smoker enjoying himself, oblivious to everyone around him. As you climbed the staircase to the main dining room, you had a moment of deja vu. And it wasn’t from the last time you’d taken those stairs, it was much more recent—  
  
_The Rockford_ …  
  
. _Justin._  
  
You shook it off as you followed Nate to the table where Leo’s lawyer was sitting. You thought you’d seem him before, but you couldn’t be sure. Nate made the introductions, “Brian Kinney. Jay Foster.” The two of you shook hands. A white-coated waiter approached to take your drink order, and you asked for Johnnie Walker.  
  
“Blue or red, sir?”  
  
“Blue, if you have it.”  
  
“Very well.”  
  
There was talk of the service over salad, how it was respectful and well done. Leo would’ve approved. When the steaks arrived, Jay turned the conversation around. Time to look forward. You listened quietly as they hammered out the details.  
  
“Nate, how long until you move the plant from here to New Hampshire?”  
  
“A year, give or take. Gotta find a location first.”  
  
“Then I suggest we don’t announce that now. No use in getting everyone upset.”  
  
“Fine with me, but we’ve got to make sure we give people enough notice to either relocate or find new jobs. I’m not going to leave a thousand people out in the cold.”  
  
“We’re in a position to offer above average severance packages.”  
  
Nate seemed satisfied with that information, telling Jay that he was planning on meeting with all of the employees at ten a.m. the next day to introduce himself. All of the white collar employees knew Nate well, but to the blue collar faction, he was a name and a periodic snapshot in the newspaper.  
  
Jay approved, “That’s a good idea.”  
  
The three of you finished your meal, and you laughed at Nate when he pulled a small bag of licorice out of his suit pocket. “He’s an addict,” you told Jay.  
  
“I know. He eats more candy than my two kids put together.”  
  
……  
  
About thirty minutes later, you, Nate, and Jay descended the stairs of The Harvard Club, gathering all of your winter wear from the coat check. As soon as you stepped outside, you were greeted with a cold gust of wind and something that you recognized all too well from your days running Stockwell’s campaign—a press ambush.  
  
There were about twenty people outside the club protesting the relocation of the Brown Athletics plant.  
  
“Fuck,” Nate said, ducking into the limo. You were the last one in, slamming the door on the loud voices. Nate was visibly flustered, “How the hell do people know? We haven’t even announced it.”  
  
“Somebody must’ve leaked,” you offered. “Or they were sitting at the next table in the restaurant.”  
  
Jay kept looking over his shoulder, “This isn’t good.”  
  
The limo wove through back streets at Jay’s command as he turned on the television, checking the local stations. It was barely four o’clock and all was strangely quiet—the proverbial calm before the storm.  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Savage Garden’s _Affirmation_ , Zappacosta’s _Overload_ from the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack, Otis Redding’s _These Arms of Mine_ from the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack, Marvin Gaye’s _I Heard It Through the Grapevine_ , Groove Terminator’s _Here Comes Another One_ , Marvin Gaye’s _I Heard It Through the Grapevine_ , the Five Satin’s _In the Still of the Night_ , the Rolling Stone’s _Start Me Up_ , Elton John’s _Rocket Man_ , Don McLean’s _Amercian Pie_ , and The Beatle’s _The Long and Winding Road_.  
  
Quotes in the first section were taken from the movie _Dirty Dancing_.


	25. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 22-Affiliations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 4/8/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 22-AFFILIATIONS**  
  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
_Tuesday, February 22, 2011_  
  
_sending you forget me nots_  
  
That Tuesday morning after Brian left for the airport, the doorbell rang at eight thirty. You donned Brian’s favorite pants and descended the stairs to see who had the indecency to bother you at that hour, but were quite pleased when it was an exceptionally hot guy from Federal Express,  
  
“Got three packages here for a ‘B. Kinney/J. Taylor.’”  
  
“I can sign for them,” you offered.  
  
“Last name’s Taylor?” he asked, looking at your signature.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Two of the packages were large, so Mr. Hottie helped you get them into the foyer.  
  
“Have a good day,” he said, and you closed the front door, watching him through the window as he walked down your very long sidewalk to his truck, enjoying the scenery. When he pulled away, you looked at the return address on all three boxes— _The Rockford, Dixville Notch, NH._  
  
Brian’s pocket knife was laying on the table beside the front door, so you used it to slice the boxes open. The first, the smallest of the three, was a gift basket wrapped in champagne-colored cellophane. You pulled it out of the box and cut the ribbon off, revealing a loofah, a back brush, bubble bath, shower gel, and lotion all labeled, _Almond Ambiance_ from the exclusive _Moments with Melody_ collection. There was a note taped to the cellophane from Sarah,

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
The other two packages were much bigger, one almost three feet tall and narrow, the other wide and flat. You decided to open the flat one next and were less than thrilled to see that it was the painting you and Brian had brought crashing down. It was completely repaired and Sarah had taped a small, pink envelope with ‘Brian’ written on it on the top of the painting. You propped it against the wall and sliced open the last box. Taped to the top of a concealing heap of packing peanuts was a post-it with ‘Justin-especially for you’ on it. As you began to remove them, the contents of the box became visible.  
  
It was a trio of garden gnomes in compromising positions.  
  
Apparently the appropriate gift for a shotgun wedding was obnoxious home decor accessories and over-hyped toiletries.  
  
You closed the box, leaving the packing peanuts scattered all over the floor, grabbed the painting and the basket of bath products and made your way back upstairs. Sitting the basket on your bed, you walked the painting down the hall, opened Brian’s office, stood on a chair, and hung it on the available nail on the wall over his desk. You left the note smack in the middle of it, shut the door, and headed back to your bedroom.  
  
*******************  
_she works hard for the money_  
  
Your track pants were in a heap on the bathroom floor and your toes were sticking up out of the overly-frothy, _Almond Ambiance_ bubble bath you’d drawn for yourself when you decided that there was no harm in having good wine for breakfast. In fact, the only negative thought you had about the entire concept was that you were going to have to get up and go get it yourself. The distance from the bath tub to the door of the bathroom just kept getting longer and longer the more you thought about it, so you distracted yourself by masturbating.  
  
But that didn’t take very long.  
  
……  
  
And you were still hungry.  
  
……  
  
But then Brian called your cell phone and when you didn’t answer, immediately called the house. You answered the (waterproof, voice-activated) speaker phone (with caller ID) that was built into the tile above the tub, “Hey.”  
  
“ _I’ve landed. I’m officially in Chicago.”_  
  
“I’m officially in the bath tub.”  
  
“ _My lad of leisure.”_  
  
You didn’t tell him about the gifts that had arrived half an hour ago, deciding that it was only fair that he be as mortified as you’d been.  
  
……  
  
“ _You going to paint today?”_  
  
“Yeah. What time is your flight back tonight?”  
  
“ _Don’t have one yet. I’ll just take first available. Not sure how long this is going to take._ ”  
  
……  
  
“Where’s the new dildo you gave me the other night? I can’t find it.”  
  
“ _It’s in the top drawer of the dresser. I put it there because I stepped on it last night when I got up to piss.”_  
  
“Sorry. Don’t come home too late, okay?”  
  
“ _I’ll try…Are you threatening to replace me with your acryl-dick?”_  
  
“Maybe…but you know what’s weird?”  
  
“ _What?”_  
  
“You two actually have a lot in common.”  
  
“ _Oh?”_  
  
“You’re both completely transparent.”  
  
……  
  
Brian’s voice was a low warning when he responded, “ _You are seriously asking for it.”_  
  
“And the thing is,” you pointed out, “After all these years, I really shouldn’t have to…. _ask_ , that is.”  
  
……  
  
“ _You know, it’s a good thing that I can walk fast with a boner, or I might be late for this funeral.”_  
  
“I like the image of you running through the terminal with a woody. That would make a great commercial for Enterprise or something.”  
  
……  
  
“ _Enterprise…we’ll pick you up….if you’re up?”_  
  
“Needs some work. You can do better than that.”  
  
……  
  
“ _Your confidence in me is awe-inspiring, Sunshine.”_  
  
“Oh, come on. I’m your _biggest_ fan, and you know it.”  
  
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and if weren’t for the extra large, indigo, back lit display on the telephone, you would’ve thought you lost him. But you didn’t.  
  
“ _No dick comparisons before nine a.m. Remember?”_  
  
“Whoops. I take it back.”  
  
“ _I’ll see you tonight—"_  
  
“Naked?”  
  
“ _Naked.”_  
  
“Jinx. Now you owe me one.”  
  
“ _Story of my life. You can collect tonight.”_  
  
“Have a good day.”  
  
“ _You, too.”_  
  
……  
  
After your conversation ended, you rose out of the tub as the water drained out, drying yourself off with a thirsty white towel that matched the one Brian had used only hours before, and then finger-combed your wet hair before trimming your cuticles. By the time you found the moisturizer you were looking for (Brian’s really expensive stuff) and began working it in, it’d already been a long day. You were exhausted.  
  
But after twenty minutes of lying back in bed and thumbing through a menswear catalog on Brian’s nightstand in which, ironically, the men were hardly wearing anything, you turned off HGTV, put on Brian’s dark blue, silky bathrobe that was way too big on you and wandered downstairs to make breakfast. Brian’s coffee cup was in the sink, and you laughed at it because you knew it was going to sit there _all day._ You had no concrete plans to confront the dishwasher for at least a week.  
  
There were plenty of ingredients in the refrigerator to conjure up a killer omelet, but you decided that you should choose the wine first, and then make an omelet that suited your selection. A couple of weeks of dining with Brian again had at least taught you that. You opened the door to the basement, immediately regretting going commando as the cold air of the cellar turned your dick into a popsicle.  
  
*******************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
_I’m takin’ what they’re givin’ ‘cause I’m workin’ for a livin’_  
  
That Tuesday morning, you were in a particularly good mood as you drove your white 2011 Ford E250 work van (with brand new lettering) to West Virginia to drop off the three slim-line ice machines you’d found on eBay for Zeal. Kinney had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to buy up the remaining inventory of the discontinued model, figuring that every one you could get your hands on bought him at least another six months before he’d have to break down and remodel the bar. And you were also riding a bit of a high since Kinney had seemed genuinely impressed last week when you told him that _you_ found the last three that were out there and had arranged to have them delivered at a very reasonable price. They’d arrived in perfect condition, and their presence in the back of your van guaranteed that you were _not_ driving like a New Yorker that day.  
  
It was actually a nice drive to Kinney’s palace, but you preferred to make deliveries in the summer when you stood a much better chance of running into Cesaro, Kinney’s pool boy/gardener/occasional housekeeper. When you first met him, you thought about doing the manly thing and asking Kinney if he was fucking him, but the only way you could figure out to ask him sounded like, 'Yo, Kinney, you hittin’ that?' So, you decided you’d just take your chances.  
  
You’d helped Cesaro carry a ton of potting soil into the backyard one day, and the seed was planted, so to speak. He was normally at the house every other Tuesday morning, and to say that the two of you knew the ins and outs of every nook and cranny of Brian’s pool house, garden shed, and cellar would be a bit of an understatement. He also didn’t speak very good English, but he knew ‘fuck, suck, blow, condom,’and ‘help me pick dis up,’ so the two of you had no trouble communicating. Your Spanish was pretty much limited to chanting, ‘Aye carumba,’ as you fucked him, which always seemed to make him smile. You’d decided that one of these days you’d throw caution to the wind and fuck Cesaro in the sauna.  
  
You backed into Kinney’s driveway to get as close to the outer basement door as possible and were extremely pleased when you flung open the back doors of your van to see that the machines had rattled back there for forty-five minutes without a scratch on them. One by one, you loaded them onto your dolly and backed down the makeshift ramp you stored just inside the cellar. You were wheeling the third one into the spot you’d selected in the basement when you heard the noise coming from the kitchen. You smiled at no one in particular; Cesaro had obviously gotten your message that morning. Things were looking up.  
  
Way _up_.  
  
You’d even worn the appropriate apparel for the occasion:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
Condom in wallet. _Check._  
  
……  
  
You popped a peppermint Altoid in your mouth and turned off your cell phone. You didn’t need a ‘have you done ‘xyz’ yet?’ call from ‘Cakes or Kinney to interrupt your fiesta. Between the two of them, they’d managed to corner the market on inopportune communication. You heard the door at the top of the stairs open; the whine it always made had become a bizarre aphrodisiac. The hinges were squeaking as you unzipped your pants.  
  
*******************  
_you had me several years ago when I was still quite naive_  
  
You saw Cesaro’s bare feet coming down the basement steps and thought that the winter must’ve been extremely hard on him because you’d never seen his skin look so pale.  
  
Or his eyes so blue.  
  
Or his hair so _blond._  
  
You stared at the man who was very obviously not Cesaro and whose greeting of, “Jesus Christ, you scared the fuck out of me,” was almost accompanied by a fall down the stairs. He regained his balance and confirmed the thought that was running through your head faster than Speedy Gonzales, “Zeek?”  
  
“Eggo?”  
  
……  
  
“What the—"  
  
(You had no idea that Kinney’s preference for blonds extended to his housekeeping staff.)  
  
Your disappointment that it hadn’t been your hot, Latin piece of ass coming down the steps, however, began to fade because this option was even better.  
  
*******************  
_I’ve had nothing but bad luck since the day I saw the cat at my door_  
  
It was eleven forty-five that Tuesday morning when you finally got back in your van, furious with yourself for being so unbelievably stupid. It was all beginning to make sense. Very, very horrible sense…  
  
The trail of blond twinks Kinney left for dead every Saturday night…  
  
The paintings that arrived a few times a year…  
  
You tried to calm yourself down by smoking a cigarette, but your hands were shaking so badly you couldn’t even light the fucking thing, so you flicked it out the window, “Fuck.”  
  
While you drove, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, you tried to convince yourself that you had in fact bought Eggo’s silence by agreeing to immediate and thorough instruction on how to use the robo-pliances in Kinney’s kitchen. (You hoped against hope that you’d also convinced him to stop kicking the dishwasher because, “It’s just gonna be me that has to come out here and fix the fucking thing.”) Kinney, you tried to explain to him, wouldn’t even let you wash his precious _car_ , much less want to know that someone (who he employed, no less) had been the fox in his own personal hen house. You crossed yourself as you crossed back into Pennsylvania, thanking the Patron Saint of Business Travel that Kinney was out of town and cursing yourself for ever thinking that there was such a thing as un-coveted country club ass.  
  
You were due at Zeal by ten thirty to unload the weekly delivery. When you’d turned your phone back on, there were three messages from Gabe, each one getting more and more pissed. The last one was especially moving,  
  
_”Where the fuck are you? If your phone’s off, that can only mean one thing—that you’re balls deep in a piece of green-card jail bait.”_  
  
*******************  
_the way things are going,  
they’re gonna crucify me_  
  
When you finally got to the restaurant, you parked in the handicapped spot (because it served your brother right), jumped out, walked inside and prepared to be inundated with Gabe’s favorite Tuesday morning cologne, _Hysteria._ You responded to the expression on Gabe’s face before he could even start with you, “Get your panties out of your crack.”  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You know the truck comes on Tuesday mornings. You want me to get a health code violation? They’ll shut us down.”  
  
You ignored him, walking right past him, through the kitchen, and out the back door, propping it open with a triangular wooden block. He followed you and continued, “You want me to hire somebody else to do this?”  
  
“I _want_ you to shut the fuck up.” The two of you continued to spar while you carried each case of chicken in, stacking it in the walk-in freezer.  
  
“You know, the light’s broken in here again. You told me you’d fix it last week. That’s a six point violation.”  
  
You slammed the door to the kitchen when you were through and told your little brother, “I’m about to give _you_ your own, very personal, six point violation. We need to talk—in your office.” The two of you walked into his office, and you let him have it the minute the door shut, “ _Why_ didn’t you tell me that Eggo was Kinney’s better half?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Eggo-- Justin, Kinney’s partner. Why didn’t you tell me? You’re sitting here having a fucking fit about some unlikely fucking health inspection, and _not_ telling me that I was crashin’ the custard truck into a giant ‘no trespassing’ sign.”  
  
You could tell by the look on your brother’s face that he had no idea what you were talking about. And right as you were making that connection, Emmett knocked on the door, " _Everything okay in there? Lunch rush is—"_  
  
“Can it, Fruit Salad.”  
  
“No, let him in,” Gabe snapped at you. “Ask him. I have a restaurant to run, thank you very much.”  
  
So you opened the door right as Emmett was about to knock again, grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, shutting the door. He was flustered, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but we need a host out there.”  
  
“I’ll go,” Gabe volunteered, giving you a dirty look as he left you alone with Emmett.  
  
Emmett was the only effeminate fag you’d ever met who wasn’t spellbound by your machismo. It confused you, but you respected him for it.  
  
“What’s the problem, sweetie? Oh, I just now got your shirt. Funny.”  
  
“All right, Juicy Fruit, how long have Kinney and Eg-- _Justin_ been a thing?”  
  
“Oh gosh, over a decade.”  
  
“A _decade?_ you asked incredulously.  
  
“At least. Why? What’s wrong?”  
  
You got up and left the restaurant, announcing to anyone without ear shot, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the cemetery digging my own grave.”  
  
*******************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
_I make my living off the evening news,  
just give me something that I can use _  
  
_late afternoon, that same Tuesday back in Chicago…_  
  
News of the Brown Athletics plant relocation foreshadowed everything else on the local news in Chicago that night. Earlier that afternoon, in the limo, you, Jay, and Nate tried to formulate a plan of action. You were pretty sure that hiding out in a limo on one of city’s back streets while Nate consoled himself with the rest of his licorice stash wasn’t going to be the answer. As the limo driver took the back streets to Brown Athletics’s offices, you focused your attention back on the matter at hand, “We need to get in front of this, Nate,” you advised.  
  
“I don’t even know what exactly I’m getting in front _of_. I haven’t even finalized anything yet.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to have to. Indecision is an untenable position.”  
  
“Even if it’s the _truth_?” he asked.  
  
“Truth isn’t anything more than well-defined intentions.”  
  
Nate’s exasperation with a situation was always the first signal that he was close to finding a solution. You’d seen it many times. Any minute, his sugar high would start to fall and reason would return.  
  
*******************  
_got a good reason for taking the easy way out_  
  
Nate’s office was lush—two long, dark brown leather sofas that were each long enough for you to stretch out on, and the fourth wall of his office, the one behind his desk, was completely glass and offered a spectacular view of downtown Chicago. Just being there, looking out over the city like that, helped you understand the hysteria over the plant relocation. Blue collar labor in Chicago, just as in every other industrial area in America, was being outsourced and replaced with minimum wage jobs that a Chicago city-dweller could no longer live on. The few industries that remained were getting desperate while legislators worked tirelessly to pass legislation chock full of incentives to attract new industry and reward the ones that stayed. And though Nate had no intention of moving the plant overseas, as far as you knew, the citizens of Chicago hardly made the distinction. Outsourcing was outsourcing as far as the city was concerned, domestic or not.  
  
Nated paced back and forth in front of the window while Jay surfed the ‘net looking to see who was putting the story out. You clapped your hands together and began, “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to call a press conference now so we can make the eleven o’clock news cycle.”  
  
“Just like that?” Jay wanted to know, glancing up from the monitor.  
  
Nate spoke up, “He knows what he’s doing, Jay. He’s run a political campaign before.”  
  
“Did the guy win?” Jay asked.  
  
“Moving on,” you conceded.  
  
……  
  
“There’s already talk of a boycott,” Jay continued, shaking his head at whatever he was reading.  
  
Nate’s patience was beginning to wane, “It’s not like I’m moving the plant to China. Jesus.” And then he sat down again, resting his forehead on his palm and sighing, “Leo’s been in the ground for what? Five hours?”  
  
“Get this,” Jay added, pointing to pictures of signs the protestors were carrying, “Their slogan: _The one thing NOT to wear.”_  
  
Nate ran his fingers through his hair in defeat, “Oh, that’s just perfect.”  
  
_No,_ you thought, _Now it’s personal._  
  
*******************  
_so don’t delay,  
act now,  
supplies are running out_  
  
For the last ten years, you’d worked tirelessly to mold the image of Brown Athletics into something that rivaled Nike’s market share. The brand had become something that most CEOs would give their right arm for—a wholesome, global, everyman name that was worn by the rich, the poor, and the in between—not just professional athletes. After the Drew Boyd debacle and his unsuccessful replacement (who was indicted for statutory rape before he ever made it to the first photo shoot), you encouraged Leo to stay away from celebrity endorsements. ”That’s exactly what we don’t want,” you’d explained and then launched a new campaign that made its mark by mocking the other guys:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
And for the high end men’s magazines:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
You’d used market saturation, brand loyalty, uniform price lines, and the manipulation of good old-fashioned American values to convince customers that every piece of Brown Athletic wear they owned got them one step closer to their own humanity.  
  
In your hands, nostalgia was a weapon.  
  
*******************  
_when it’s said and done,  
we haven’t told you a thing_  
  
An hour later, the press conference you engineered in front of Brown Athletics headquarters brought out the Nate Rockford you were used to. He was confident, upbeat, and said a lot without really saying anything at all:  
  
“ _I’ve know Leo Brown for over three decades. He was a man I admired and trusted, and I’m honored to be taking his place as CEO of the company he literally built from the ground up. Leo was a pleasure to work for; he understood the value of work and believed in making those who worked for him feel like family.  
  
“Tomorrow I’m planning to meet with all employees at both the plant and at headquarters to discuss the future of Brown Athletics. Today, I want to remember my friend. Thank you.”_  
  
Nate concluded his statement and left the podium as the reporters were clamoring,  
  
“ _Mr. Rockford, is it true that--?”  
  
“Do you have time for a couple of questions?”_  
  
You stepped up to the microphone, as you were the only person left anywhere near it, “Not at this time. Thank you.”  
  
Your press conference had ended at five p.m., and you underestimated the efficiency of the Chicago local news channels. Brown Athletics was the lead story on every single station. You watched Nate make his speech on three channels simultaneously from the comfort of one of his sofas, his coat buttoned up tight, the wind occasionally interfering with the microphone.  
  
“Look, I’m in stereo,” Nate said, referring to the identical report playing on every damn channel. Nate never had an aversion to being on camera; he just preferred to be in the end zone dumping icy Gatorade on some player’s head while passing out free sweatshirts while Leo looked on from his luxury box.  
  
“Good thing you wore that suit,” you told him.  
  
“Isn’t there some sort of expression that if you’re going to deliver ambivalent news at least look good doing it?”  
  
“There is now.”  
  
*******************  
_get back to where you once belonged_  
  
Before leaving Chicago to return to your respective homes, you and Nate indulged in one last Brown Athletics’s tradition in honor of Leo’s passing—a visit to your favorite cigar bar/restaurant--Cutter. Over the years, you, Nate, and Leo had often dined there at the end of a busy day, and you’d taken plenty of their money trying to teach each of them how to play pool. The only way either of them ever stood a chance of winning a game was if you eventually bowed out, so it wasn’t uncommon for you to adjourn to the men’s room to get your dick sucked while they played. You suspected that they knew what you were doing, but there was always a gentlemanly regard amongst the three of you that probably resembled something like, _don’t ask, don’t tell._  
  
Cutter was one of those bars that had flourished as smokers were systemically banned from every human establishment. Its dark décor reminded you of The Tavern at The Rockford except that it was more masculine. The red carpet was fading, and the years of tobacco smoke made the place hover right on the edge of cozy vs. claustrophobic. But that night, it was just you and Nate, sitting in matching leather, wing-back chairs after your meal, puffing and talking. Nate crossed his legs, pointing his cigar at you as he spoke,  
  
“You know, it’s my life, and I’m going to enjoy it. If that means I have to relocate the plant, then that’s what it means.” You nodded, sensing he didn’t really want a response, just a sounding board. “One man’s tragedy is another man’s windfall,” he continued, “That’s the way I look at it.” Speaking of windfalls, you offered to take him once more in a game of pool, realizing at that moment that you really might not come back there again,  
  
“Oh, come on, Nate. Let me take your money one more time, for old time’s sake.”  
  
He shook his head and laughed, “No fucking way.”  
  
As the evening wore on, several of Nate’s colleagues came over to offer their condolences, and as he began to get involved in conversation with one of them, you excused yourself and headed for the men’s room.  
  
You were, not surprisingly, followed.  
  
*******************  
_I walk the line_  
  
You’d seen him, Kyle Rowland, Leo’s personal assistant, wandering through the restaurant, and you wondered who was paying for his dinner as he was propositioning you, “Mr. Kinney—"  
  
“No, thanks.”  
  
“Not even a quick fuck?”  
  
“No, not even a quick fuck. But thanks for the offer,” you said, the sarcasm in your voice not sitting well with him. Didn’t seem to be the answer he wanted, but it hadn’t changed in ten years. And neither had he, really. Every subsequent visit you’d made to Brown’s headquarters after your first meeting had included the same conversation with Kyle: a reiteration of your ‘one fuck only’ policy.  
  
“Only want it when you need something, right?”  
  
You zipped up your pants and moved to the sink to wash your hands, watching him in the mirror, “Fuck. Off.”  
  
Unabated, he continued, “The ring’s new.” The defiant stare he was giving you was steady, constant and really pissing you off.  
  
Over the years, you’d begun to suspect that Leo knew how you’d managed to find him at The Harvard Club that day, and if Leo knew, then Nate knew. Neither ever came right out and told you, and you felt that Leo expected your discretion by granting you his. Your suspicion that Kyle was more than just Leo’s personal assistant was confirmed over the years by the young man’s appearance at any event Brown was sponsoring, always by Leo’s side and a little too attentive.  
  
You ignored his observation while drying your hands, “Nate keeping you on?”  
  
“I’m sure you know that Mr. Rockford doesn’t require my services.”  
  
“Well, what do you know? That makes two of us.”  
  
*******************  
_listen to what the man said_  
  
You exited the men’s room, leaving Kyle standing alone in front of the mirror, and returned to your table. Nate was alone again, the well-wishers having come and gone. He eyed you as you sat back down, “That didn’t take very long.”  
  
“I didn’t realize you’d fired him,” you responded, watching Nate watch Kyle gather his coat and head for the front door.  
  
“Let’s just say he’s not my type.”  
  
……  
  
A silence hung in the air between you like a ring of smoke.  
  
……  
  
“When did you—"  
  
He cut you off, “This morning.”  
  
“Before the funeral?”  
  
Nate shrugged his shoulders as he confirmed your timeline, “Yeah. First thing this morning. I gave him the letter of recommendation that Leo had prepared for him.”  
  
You both knew that he’d done more than that; he’d plugged the leak.  
  
……  
  
“Leo took care of him?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah. Kyle wasn’t exactly employed for his typing skills.” And then he fiddled with his watch, something he always did before pre-meditated words came out of his mouth, “But I’m sure you know that.”  
  
You felt yourself nodding in some kind of covert admission.  
  
“I’m also replacing the copy machine,” he added, a smirk on his face, “I know how attracted you are to those things."  
  
“Especially ones with an automatic feed.”  
  
He continued, “Might as well rid us of temptation now that you’re a married man.”  
  
You flipped him off ever so slightly, but he saw it and laughed.  
  
There’d only been a few times in your life when you’d ever detected Nate’s displeasure at something you’d done, and the moment after Kyle left the restaurant that night had been one of them. He didn’t have to come right out and tell you, you could tell by the tone in his voice. And the fact that Nate Rockford was a client and not your boss was a subtle but remarkable distinction. Your personal reputation had never been of great concern to you, but it was safe to say that if you had the chance to do it all again, you may have made different decisions.  
  
Having spent so much time with him over the years, you knew Nate’s displeasure had nothing to do with his opinion of you or your extracurricular activities; it was always a matter of discretion. Nate had always had a deep and abiding belief in maintaining his public persona. And since you’d done that for him and for Brown for a decade, it wasn’t surprising that Nate reacted when he saw an opportunity to smooth over a chink in your armor.  
  
The two of you sat there for a few more minutes, finishing your drinks, and then walked outside. Your scarf was flying in front of your face as you fought to secure it inside your overcoat. There were two limos out front waiting—one to take you to the airport and one to take Nate to his Chicago apartment. Nate thanked you for your company and your assistance with the media.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” you said, pulling your black leather gloves on.  
  
The flight home from Chicago was peaceful and dark. You had the entire row to yourself in first class, save the pillow and blanket the flight attendant quietly sat on the seat beside you. When you tired of reading, you extinguished the light above your head, leaned back, and closed your eyes.  
  
*******************  
_I’ll be the one to tuck you in at night_  
  
When you walked into your house that Tuesday night, it was as quiet and dark as the plane ride had been. It was a little after midnight, and you sat your briefcase in the kitchen, hung up your overcoat, and made your way upstairs, discarding your clothes as you went. So many times over the years you’d returned from these trips and climbed your staircase to the solitary haven of your bedroom, but that night the haven was occupied. You smiled as you stood in the doorway loosening your tie, the blue light of the television making Justin’s hair glow as he slept, sprawled on his back, as if he’d fallen asleep immediately after having been flattened by a runaway train. You tossed your clothes in the chair, turned off the television, and slid into bed beside him. His hand was splayed on top of the covers and you moved it, tucking it underneath the comforter and covering him up, causing him to stir,  
  
“Mmm, you’re home.”  
  
Your noses touched for a second, a gesture that you’re rarely conscious of anymore, “Hey.”  
  
You moved so that you were on top of him, kissing him behind his ear, breathing him in, your hand slipping underneath his t-shirt. He bristled, “Your hands are cold.”  
  
“They’ll warm up,” you promised, letting your lips move down his neck as he moaned a little, arching into you.  
  
“They better.”  
  
……  
  
“I want you.”  
  
“I can tell.”  
  
……  
  
He began to awaken as you kissed him, his eyes opening, his pupils so dark as the kiss deepened, his warm body wrapping around you.  
  
“ _I’ve been thinking about this all day,”_ you confessed in a whisper.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Coming home and finding you sound asleep…undressing you…” And then your hand changed directions, slipping underneath the waistband of his cottony pants.  
  
“Well, you’ve definitely found me,” he responded, his smile interrupted by a yawn. “I missed you today.”  
  
“No underwear,” you pointed out.  
  
“I wish I could say that was all for you, but I’m just lazy.”  
  
You laughed, your fingers bypassing his cock and moving along his inner thigh instead, “Well, in that case, I’ll take what I can get.”  
  
……  
  
And then your kiss resumed, your hand cupping the side of his face. There were often overwhelming moments when you made love to Justin, moments where you felt exactly in tune with his body, when you felt like the sweet, smooth, calculated innocence he gave off was just for you. And the thought of experiencing all of that would blaze through your mind like an abandoned forest fire if you let it. His body was beginning to respond, following your touch and the sound of your voice. You watched his face as you touched him, always drawn to the arc of desire as it overtook him.  
  
You were compelled to exploit it.  
  
He was trapped underneath you, pinned by the spread of your hands on his chest, the pads of your thumbs circling his nipples, your forceful kiss rendering him voluntarily defenseless, when you revealed your intentions to him, “You’re going to come before I fuck you.”  
  
His body elongated underneath yours, stretching to wake up, “Mmm.”  
  
“’Cause I’m gonna fuck you for a long time.”  
  
“'Kay.”  
  
“Lose the shirt,” you told him as you helped him out of his pants. Your face was so close to his that he smothered you for a second as he yanked it over his head.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not gonna argue with you if you want to suffocate me.”  
  
He pulled your face back in, answering you before he kissed you, “That’s okay. I’m too tired.”  
  
_Rain check._  
  
……  
  
You felt his body relax as your lips moved down his chest, moaning as your hand wrapped between his legs so you could guide his cock into your mouth. You spoke when you realized, “Your bottom is plugged, you little rascal.”  
  
“ _That_ is all for you,” he replied.  
  
You stroked him, telling him, “Explain to me how someone can be too lazy to wear underwear, but not too lazy to plug himself.”  
  
“It’s complicated,” he said, urging your face closer to his dick.  
  
…….  
  
“We have ways of making you talk,” you teased him.  
  
“You have ways of making me rabid with anticipation, but that doesn’t mean you should.”  
  
……  
  
“Sunshine, are you saying that you’d like your dick sucked?”  
  
“No,” he emphasized, “I’m trying to say that I’d like my dick sucked _right now._ ”  
  
Your lips were brushing the length of his cock, “ _Right_ now?”  
  
“Or face expulsion from this bed—" You let him fill your mouth. “ _Uh.”_  
  
His hips pressed into your face as you as you sucked him, pushing on the plug, his leg wrapping around your body to keep you close. He wound your hair in his fingers as he fucked your face, “ _Push, Brian.”_  
  
You obliged him, the pressure making him come down your throat, and you closed your eyes, your head pressed against his stomach until you felt him release your hair, felt the tension in his body begin to fade away.  
  
……  
  
In the aftermath, you stayed where you were for a few minutes, tucked against him, listening to his heartbeat intermingled with an occasional growl of his stomach, the fatigue of the day beginning to emerge.  
  
“Hungry?” you asked.  
  
“I ate.”  
  
(You knew better to ask if there were leftovers in the refrigerator. After all, timing and ass are everything.)  
  
……  
  
Eventually, you moved, your fingers running around the edge of his plug, teasing him until he called for you, “C’mere.” You moved slowly up his body, your hand lingering on his ass, removing the plug. His hand wormed between the two of you, pushing your cock between his legs, a sensual insistence in his voice, “ _Inside me._ ” You made him wait until you had his legs on your shoulders, until just the hard feeling of your cock between his legs was making him beg. Your hands were snug around his thighs as you began to thrust, strong and unyielding. “Uh, _yes._ ”  
  
He had little leverage as you fucked him, and you reveled in it. The pace was yours to set and his to struggle against, so you slowed down, burying your face in his neck as he held you, his breath burning your ear, “ _Brian._ ” Every thrust you made elicited a beautifully helpless note out of him, the soundtrack of vulnerable, filthy desire.  
  
For you.  
  
When he lifted his arms over his head, his fingers curling tight around the wrought iron bed frame, giving him something to push against, you smiled and kissed the side of his face, following his eyes as they looked out the window of your bedroom, your memory crackling to life for a second, like a radio searching the dial for the right station, ‘ _Coming back from a funeral? That alone is worth a fuck and a suck, if you know what I mean._ ’ You smiled and laughed.  
  
“What’s so funny?” he asked, his hands returning to your face.  
  
“Nothing. Idiot on the plane.” You lowered yourself into his arms again, your face pressed against his, the scent of his shampoo filling your nose. Vanilla-almond sweet.  
  
“Was your day okay?” he asked.  
  
“It’s much better now.”  
  
“You know when you called me, and I said I was going to paint?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I lied.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I was masturbating. All day. I didn’t even really get out of bed.”  
  
You laughed.  
  
“You don’t think that’s pathetic?” he asked.  
  
“I think it’s sweet.”  
  
He kissed you and then asked, “Sweet like what I put in your briefcase?”  
  
“Sweet like your sweet, unbelievably fuckable, little ass.”  
  
……  
  
“Are you gonna come sometime tonight?” he asked.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“’Kay, well, let my legs go. I’m not seventeen anymore.”  
  
“You’ll always be seventeen to me.”  
  
……  
  
You kissed him, allowed his legs to fall to either side of you, and then pulled out, “Roll over. On your knees.” You weren’t in the mood to compromise depth.  
  
He obeyed, and you listened to him moan as your thumbs spread him apart and protest when you took your time, “ _Fuck me.”_  
  
When you pushed back inside him, when he felt your hands wrap around his hips, when you were so fucking deep inside him and holding him still, he began to chant something that sounded like your name laced with complete abandon. He came when you restrained him, when he felt you come inside him, panting into the sheets as you enjoyed the sensation of pouring into him.  
  
You felt almost despondent when it was over, when you pulled out, and he turned back over, his arms reaching for you as you lay back on top of him, that feeling of being blissfully fucked-out easing through your entire body.  
  
“I want you to masturbate all day tomorrow, too,” you told him.  
  
“I want you to retire. Immediately.”  
  
……  
  
The kiss you shared after the fuck was soft and lingering, and your inability to let it end paid off nicely, “Mr. Kinney, I’m pleased to inform you that your arduous lovemaking has earned the _Good Housekeeping_ seal of approval.”  
  
You weren’t lying when you told him, “I’m honored. I’ve waited my entire life for that.” (If you had a condom for every time you’d put that accolade as the finishing touch on someone’s print or television ad, the entire world would be suffering from a latex shortage.)  
  
“Well, congratulations.”  
  
“When’s the ceremony?” you asked.  
  
“I’ll blow you in the morning.”  
  
……  
  
Your bodies shifted as they cooled, and he curled back into you, both of you facing the window again. Your fingers ran through his hair as he sighed, “ _Feels good.”_  
  
“Did you set the alarm?” you asked.  
  
“Yep.”  
  
…..  
  
“You smell sweet,” you told him, your nose returning to the warm spot behind his ear.  
  
“That’s because we got a gift basket this morning from The Rockford.”  
  
“Were you actually having a moment with Melody?” you asked, feigning shock, the thought of Justin exfoliating all by himself much more arousing than it should have been.  
  
“Actually, I had several. And we now have three morally-questionable gnomes in the garden in the backyard.”  
  
“We do?”  
  
“They were a wedding present from Nate and Sarah. You got something, too. It’s in your office. But you’re not getting out of this bed right now.”  
  
“Okay. Wasn’t really planning on it,” you admitted.  
  
……  
  
And then he announced that he was cold, so you sat up, reaching for the comforter from its exile at the foot of the bed, tugging it until both of you were amply covered, offering, “I can turn on the fireplace.”  
  
“No, then I’ll just get too hot.”  
  
“I don’t know how anyone can be cold after having their brains so thoroughly, and might I add, expertly, fucked out,” you replied, pulling him against you.  
  
“I reset quickly,” he explained.  
  
“Years of practice,” you added.  
  
“Makes perfect.”  
  
You couldn’t agree more.  
  
*******************  
_last night I didn’t get to sleep at all_  
  
You weren’t surprised when you couldn’t sleep, although you refused to admit to yourself that now that you were quite rapidly pushing forty, you tired earlier and were known to indulge in the occasional nap. You were quiet as you rose from your bed, stepping into a pair of (Brown Athletics) track pants and exiting your bedroom, closing the door behind you. The hardwood floors in the hallway were cold underneath your feet.  
  
Your study, however, was carpeted, and the minute your feet registered the difference, you saw the painting hanging over your desk—the gift Justin spoke of. It wasn’t hanging straight, so you adjusted it while removing the pink note with your name on it from the frame. Your reading glasses were downstairs in your briefcase, so you decided you’d just squint:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
Your stomach was growling, so you wandered downstairs to the kitchen to find something to eat. When you opened the refrigerator, your eyes fell on a casserole dish that, quite frankly, you didn’t know you had, and the yellow sticky note on it from Justin informing you that it was ‘ _squash casserole with asparagus—try it before you complain.’_  
  
You zapped it in the microwave, and then stood in front of the kitchen window as you ate. The casserole was pretty decent, and as you chewed, you leaned forward over the sink trying to make out the degenerate gnomes in the backyard, but it was too dark and you didn’t want to turn on the flood lights and wake Justin. You rinsed the dish off and put it in the dishwasher, and had your mind not been pre-occupied with the realization that, _asparagus….that’s why he tasted different tonight…_ , you might’ve noticed the dishwasher’s status on its door-embedded monitor:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
Or, as you opened the door to get a beer, the refrigerator:

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
But instead, as you descended the basement steps to be sure that Zeek hadn’t been bull shitting you about the condition of the custom ice machines, you were overly engrossed with the image of Justin between your legs, sucking _you_ off post-asparagusly in approximately four hours.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Patrice Rushen’s _Forget Me Nots_ , Donna Summer’s _She Works Hard for the Money_ , Huey Lewis’s _Workin’ for a Livin’_ , Carly Simon’s _You’re So Vain_ , Cliff Richard’s _Devil Woman_ , The Beatles’s _Ballad of John and Yoko_ , Don Henley’s _Dirty Laundry_ , The Beatles’s _Day Tripper_ , Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ , Don Henley’s _Dirty Laundry_ again, The Beatle’s _Get Back_ , Johnny Cash’s _Walk the Line_ , Paul McCartney & Wing’s _Listen to What the Man Said_ , Uncle Kracker’s _Follow Me_ , and The Fifth Dimension’s _Last Night (I Didn’t Get to Sleep at All)._

_[CLICK HERE to see what Brian couldn't see in the middle of the night....](http://plumsuede.livejournal.com/162661.html) _


	26. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 23-Domain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 5/1/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 23-DOMAIN**  
**JENNIFER TAYLOR’S POV**  
  
_and here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson_  
  
_February 22, 2011, earlier that Tuesday evening…_  
  
The black skirt you were wearing that evening was _Saks Fifth Avenue_ on clearance….four hundred and fifty marked down to fifty. The pale, silky blush-colored blouse was _Victoria’s Secret,_ a gift from Tuck when you brought home that skirt. The black pumps were _Givenchy_ , purchased with a gift certificate Brian had given you for Christmas one year. You’d started the day with your hair pinned up, but Tuck had released it when he got home from school because it made him hard just to watch it fall. When Rube called your cell to confirm that the two of you were still on for the evening, Tuck’s hands were moving quickly underneath your skirt, pulling your black panties down to the edge of your thigh-high stockings, his fingers teasing between your legs until you hung up the phone. You told him you didn’t have much time as he pressed on your back, pushing you down on the kitchen counter, your brand new bottle of Chanel’s _Chance_ shattering on the kitchen floor.  
  
“Tuck!”  
  
“I’ll clean it up.”  
  
Being fucked like that—by a man who was nearly twenty-five years your junior—well, it definitely kept the self-esteem pump primed.  
  
He’d promised you a new bottle and a much rougher repeat if you could get home before he fell asleep grading papers.  
  
*******************  
_Mr. Big Stuff,  
who do you think you are?_  
  
_…in Jennifer’s 2009, Barbera Red, BMW Series 5 Sedan_  
  
The white cargo van in your rear-view mirror kept getting closer and closer, and you were about to slam on your brakes to teach it a lesson when Emmett glanced back over his shoulder and then told you, “That’s Zeek. Just ignore him.”  
  
“He’s gonna hit me!” you replied, as Emmett turned back around and fastened his seatbelt.  
  
Gabe mumbled from the backseat, “Yeah, he wishes.”  
  
“He better not wreck that van,” Ted added, from his position next to Gabe, “Brian insures that vehicle; he’ll kick his ass.”  
  
Gabe snorted.  
  
You hadn’t been around Gabe that often, but every time you were, he seemed to be getting a little more uptight. Emmett seemed to be absorbing your thoughts, and whispered, “He and Zeek are having marital problems today.”  
  
_Been there, done that._  
  
“Why? What’s wrong?” you asked.  
  
Emmett looked flustered and regretful for a moment and then said, “Oh, it’s nothing really--just brotherly love/hate--you know, same old story.”  
  
You used your rear-view mirror once more to try to cheer Gabe up, “Gabe?”  
  
He seemed to snap out of his sour mood and back into his customer service one, “Yes, ma’am?”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever met your brother.”  
  
“Lucky lady,” he responded, his polite demeanor having once again sunk out of view.  
  
……  
  
You didn’t realize that when you offered to show Rube the ‘perfect house for him’ (Brian’s description, not yours) that it would involve a caravan and more ‘advisors’ than you could stuff in a clown car. “I think it’s because he’s a twin,” Emmett explained, “Rube just doesn’t like to be alone.”  
  
Well, he certainly wouldn’t be, you thought, considering he’d insisted on bringing his decorator, financial advisor, handy man, and chef to this showing. You’d get over it, though, _if_ he bought the house.  
  
(And if Tuck kept his promise.)  
  
*******************  
_who let the dogs out?_  
  
Ruben was laced with excitement when he tumbled out of Zeek’s van, ran into the front yard, faced the house and proclaimed, “I love it.” He was definitely going to be a client different than any you’d had before. You led him to the front door, undid the lock box and stepped aside so that he could be the first one inside. When you tried to follow, you were prevented by a plethora of gay men who’d apparently forgotten the laws of chivalry. As the last man in line, Zeek gave you a smile that you instantly knew was some sort of physical approval.  
  
“Name’s Zeek,” he offered, as if it was short for ‘God of this Foyer.’  
  
“Jennifer.”  
  
_”Jennifer,”_ he repeated. “Very nice.” And then in some sort of macho-attempt to impress you, declared rather loudly, “Rube, gonna go ‘round back and check out the main panel for you.” Rube thanked him, his eyes fixated on a ceiling fan, which you’d made sure was running.  
  
Zeek was more or less blocking your ability to get through the front door when he asked, “Anything I need to know before I go looking for it?”--a self-satisfied smile perched on his face.  
  
You smiled as sweetly as you could, “That it’s already been inspected and certified by Pittsburgh’s chief electrical inspector?”  
  
He recovered too quickly, “Right. Well, better safe than sorry.” You sneezed as he stepped off the front stoop, his cologne tickling your nose. “Bless you, Jen,” he added as he walked away.  
  
……  
  
The interior of the two story house at 711 Luster Drive was immaculately clean. It’d been empty for almost two months, and you made sure that everything was perfect because you so desperately wanted to sell it. You eventually joined Ruben in the vast master bedroom and stood beside him as he looked out the window at the back yard.  
  
“I want this house,” he told you. It was the easiest sale you’d ever made. “The backyard is perfectly flat. That’s what I want.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“’711 Luster.’ It’s like a slurpee.” And then he added, before you could even respond, “Ice cream headache.”  
  
You laughed a little, “I suppose so.”  
  
“What’s up there?” he asked you, turning around and pointing to the spiral staircase in the corner of the bedroom.  
  
“A little loft, basically. Some people use if for an office or reading area.”  
  
“I like it,” he told you. “It’s cute.”  
  
You were trying to decide if he meant the staircase or the loft when Zeek walked back into the room with the rest of the real-estate-posse in tow. “Place looks good, Rube. Excellent condition,” he announced, posturing with his hands on his hips.  
  
“Cool,” he responded, and then looked back at you, “I want to go up there.”  
  
“Go right ahead,” you told him as a huge smile spread over his face. He walked slowly and purposely up the staircase as if it was the path to a religious altar.  
  
Zeek moved so that he was standing right beside you when, tilted his head, letting his hot breath steam up your ear, “He’s thinking about his slinkies.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
And then you decided to join Ruben in order to distance yourself from pseudo-Cassanova. It proved to be critical error in judgment when, as you descended the stairs after Ruben had explored the loft (which included seeing if he could fit his entire body into the tiny storage area under the eaves), you saw Zeek standing underneath the stairs pretending to evaluate their stability while looking right up your skirt.  
  
A proper upbringing and the aura of a possible sale kept you from driving the heel of your _Givenchy’s_ into his nuts when you were back on level ground. And then finally while your prospective buyer was trying to do a cartwheel in the walk-in closet, Ted was prattling on about fixed-rate mortgages, and Gabe was sulking in the doorway after having admitted to liking the kitchen, the remaining man (and ironically, the most effeminate of them all) took care of it for you.  
  
Emmett’s tone was almost sweet when he spoke, “Zeek, can I talk to you for minute?”  
  
Zeek was smiling at _you_ when he answered Emmett, “ _No.”_  
  
“Please. I want you to look at the plumbing in the master bath,” he continued. “Something’s not right.”  
  
He immediately changed his tune, “Be glad to,” walking backwards until he got close enough for Emmett to grab him. “Ow, what the fuck?”  
  
You pretended not to listen, to be just as fascinated with the backyard as Rube had been. Ted came and stood beside you, as if it just dawned on him that there was a testosterone intervention going on. You ignored his ‘better late than never’ gesture and listened to Emmett’s poor excuse for a whisper:  
“Zeek, you know earlier today when you were rather upset about that waffle thing?” (His question made Zeek very agitated and, admittedly, made you very confused.)  
  
“Not now, Fruitopia. And let go of me before I clock you in the pocketbook.” (You understood that; it was literal. Emmett _was_ carrying a man purse.)  
  
“Well, if Eggo is who you say he is,” Em continued, pausing for a moment, “Then that’s _Aunt Jemima.”_  
  
……  
  
There was a long, thick silence after that, which Zeek eventually broke, “Aw, mother fucker.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
You turned your head just in time to see Zeek curse the day he was born, punch Gabe in the stomach, and stomp down the stairs. ”You’re an asshole, ‘Cakes!" he yelled and them slammed the front door.  
  
Gabe was grinning from ear to ear when Rube jumped out of the closet and proclaimed, “I’ll take it!”  
  
*******************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_we don’t need no education_  
  
_early—the following Wednesday morning_  
  
When the alarm sounded at six a.m. that Wednesday morning, you reached across Justin’s slumbering form and slapped the snooze. You hadn’t fallen asleep until almost three-thirty, and the thought of getting up right then made you cover your head with your pillow and groan. Justin grabbed your arm when it flew in front of his face the second time ten minutes later,  
  
“Stop. I’ll get it.”  
  
“Throw it out the window.”  
  
“I turned it off.”  
  
You turned away from him, refusing to look at the impending sunrise coming in the window and mumbled, “Wake me up in an hour.”  
  
You felt the bed shift as he rolled back to the nightstand, knowing he was adjusting the alarm for you. When he finished, he pressed himself against you, his hand snaking around your waist.  
  
“ _Sleep,”_ he whispered in your ear, but you knew it was code for ‘ _Wanna fuck you.’_ (Fuck the same person for ten years, and you just sort of know these things.) Your body was acknowledging him as your brain was trying to power back down. You tucked your head underneath the sheets and gave your dick a dirty look that meant _not now_ , but it completely ignored you. It was staying in the game.  
  
So you tried in vain to pretend that you’d fallen back asleep, that you were immune to the seduction techniques that _you_ taught him, but as history has proven time and time again, education is never wasted.  
  
Especially on the young.  
  
And besides, turning Justin down was about as likely as Debbie retiring one of her wigs. So, you resigned yourself to the fact that he was going to put his warm hand between your legs, kiss your shoulder blades and every other inch of your back, nudge you onto your stomach without saying a word, and proceed unabated with Operation Anal Invasion.  
  
At least there was no need for body armor anymore.  
  
The coffee that Justin brought you afterwards came with a complimentary, steaming hot blow job with extra foam. You renamed your bedroom ‘Starfucks’ as you stared out the window at the ‘gnomadic’ debauchery in your backyard, drained your mug, and came down his throat.  
  
Life was good.  
  
*******************  
_if you got the goods they'll come and buy it just to stay in the clique_  
  
_"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Wednesday, February 22, 2011. The time is seven forty-five a.m. The current temperature is fifty-six degrees under partly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now."_  
  
“KINNETIK.”  
  
_"Thank you. Kinnetik is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip."_  
  
“MESSAGES.”  
  
" _At this time, there is one new messages available. Press or say--”_  
  
“ONE.”  
  
You knew it was Ruben; he called every Wednesday morning (as Wednesday was his Monday) to give you an analysis of the previous week. You and Theodore had both tried over the years to sit Ruben in front of a PC and get him to use a spreadsheet but had given up when he had to keep sitting his yo-yo down to type. Every time he sat the damn thing down, his mind went blank. At first, you wondered if he had a learning disability, perhaps dyslexia, but his ability to analyze data put in front of him—identify trends, areas for growth, problems, etc.—was almost better than Theodore’s or Gabe’s, so you abandoned that theory, ultimately realizing that stopping to put information in a spreadsheet was a hindrance for him. So, the two of you agreed to an oral report at the start of each week, which you’d listen to and then forward to Cynthia for transcription and then finally to Theodore.  
  
_”Today, five thirty a.m. Hey, Brian. Week ending Sunday, February 20, 2011: sales were strong this week, on par with the rest of the first quarter. We brought in $46,778.51 in cash sales. Our payables have stabilized, but more about that later. Increasing the cover charge during contest nights and offering drink specials is netting us more in the long run than the other way around. By more-- maybe half a percent. The coffee area upstairs is doing really well, especially on contest nights. It’s attracting a much more mature and wealthy client. He basically comes to see the contest, and then adjourns with all of his friends to the lounge upstairs. They stay there all night, talking about mutual funds and getting utterly smashed on spiked coffee. That was a really good idea, and a great use of your VIP lounge. If we bought a cab company, too, we’d absolutely mop the floor with cash on Thursday nights. I’m kidding…no, actually, I don’t think I am. I’ll run some numbers on that.  
  
“You were right about our core customer aging and his tastes changing. I think we should take this one step further and add a more comfortable, private back room to the coffee lounge. Overall, concessions are more expensive up there, and when those guys bring a young guy upstairs with them, they’re buying for two. Plus, there’s intense one-up-man-ship with that clientele. Hell, they’ll pay a second cover just to get  in there. In fact, they’re calling it ‘Mecca.’ Their name, not mine. I think we should adopt it. It’ll practically guarantee their patronage because they’ll feel included in the decision. So, maybe we can renovate up there, create a cushy back room, and then have a grand re-opening where we reveal the new name, etc.  
  
“Regarding payables, we’re looking at about twenty-five cents on the dollar right now, which is up from eighteen, but you’d expect that with the new lounge and the upfit we had to do. I think that’s it. Have Ted call me if he needs more specifics. I’ve got them…I just know you’re in the car right now. Bye.”_  
  
“ARCHIVE IN.”  
  
_“Archiving. Please specify location.”_  
  
“RUBEN. PERSONNEL FILE.”  
  
“ _File archived—"_  
  
“FORWARD. CYNTHIA. FORWARD THEODORE. MEMO.”  
  
“ _Recording memo for Ted Schmidt...”_  
  
“TED, I LIKE RUBE’S IDEA. LET’S RUN THE NUMBERS ON THE CONSTRUCTION SIDE OF IT AND GO OVER IT NEXT WEEK. SET A DATE. I WANT RUBE, CYNTHIA, YOU, GABE, AND POSSIBLY ZEEK THERE…STOP.”  
  
“ _Listen, re-record, or send? Please state--.”_  
  
“SEND. ARCHIVE IN.”  
  
_“Sending. Archiving. Please specify location.”_  
  
“THEODORE. PERSONNEL FILE. CYNTHIA. PERSONNEL FILE.”  
  
“ _Files archived.”_  
  
……  
  
“MARKET.”  
  
_”….the bottom line, Lou, is that Apple’s first quarter earnings are right on target. Many thought they were a little ambitious…”_  
  
That reminded you…  
  
“iWWINN.”  
  
_”One moment please…”_  
  
*******************  
_it was a secret meeting in the dead of the night with mysterious sanctimony_  
  
Of all the things in your life you’d ever admit to courting, there’d been one that still eluded you, one prize that you were still chasing…the Apple Computer account. Your affection for the brand had grown considerably since you purchased your Mercedes and discovered that Apple was the wizard under the dashboard. And one day a couple of years ago, you received a phone call from the car itself—a pre-recorded message inviting you to log on to its website, fill out a survey, and participate in a focus group. It was your first exposure to iWWINN®, and, as far as you were concerned, a brilliant strategy to know your prospective client inside and out.  
  
_“Accessing iWwinn…  
  
“Voice-imprint successful. Please select module.”_  
  
“ONE.”  
  
_”One moment please…”_  
  
……  
  
From that day on, you’d been a Wwinner®.  
  
iWWINN®-- _World Wide Integrated Nutrition Network®_ —was a hand-selected group of twenty-five men and women with gratuitous amounts of disposable income and influence and no shortage of ego or vanity. The twenty-five of you, scattered around the globe, made up the _APPLET_ \-- the _Apple Pilot-Project for Lifestyle Enrichment®_ \-- and were the proud hosts of a dynamic group of household devices—a refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, stove, and washer and dryer-- that were sleek and smart. The primary purpose of you and your comrades was to maximize the features of the Nutrition Module, which meant that there was no way around forging a very intimate relationship with the refrigerator.  
  
Tall, dark, and steel. A match made in heaven.  
  
The focus group was top secret in an attempt to keep _Microsoft_ in the dark, so there was no publicity, no advertising, no promotion. In fact, since day one, you’d never even been given a list of who was officially in the trial with you. You saw them at quarterly meetings that were never held in the same place twice—which was regrettable because you really wanted to go back to George Clooney’s.  
  
In the beginning, Katie Holmes campaigned hard to get an iWWINN® t-shirt (or at the very least, a beer Koozie). But her request for paraphernalia was denied immediately, as was Harry Connick Jr.’s attempt at a jingle: _Oh, when the robots come marching in…_ , and Barack Obama’s suggestion of a tie-tack for the men and a brooch for the ladies.  
  
Six months later, the powers that be softened just a little after you and Isaac Mizrahi put your heads together and designed a clandestine magnet for the group, a two hundred dollar investment which you gladly bankrolled:  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
There were only twenty-five in circulation.  
  
*******************  
_the problem’s plain to see,  
too much technology _  
  
_”Module One, please state your pass-"_  
  
“ORSON.”  
  
_Thank you. One moment please…  
  
……  
  
“I’m sorry. Please repeat your-"_  
  
“ ORSON.”  
  
_Thank you. One moment please…"_  
  
……  
  
_”I’m sorry. Module One is inaccessible at this time—"_  
  
_What the fuck?_  
  
“OVERRIDE.”  
  
_Thank you. One moment please…_  
  
……  
  
_”Administrative Override denied. Module One reporting as either inaccessible or corrupt.”_  
  
_Goddamnit._ This wasn’t wwinning.  
  
_”Preparing error transcript…..sending error transcript….receipt acknowledged. Your request will be reviewed within four hours. Thank you for using iWWINN®.”_  
  
_"Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Weather reports indicate a thirteen percent chance of precipitation.”_ An umbrella popped out of its hidden compartment next to your left leg. _”Have a productive day."_  
  
You were becoming less than optimistic.  
  
*******************  
_we supposed to be pillars of the community_  
  
The first firm thing on your schedule that day—figuratively, of course-- was a request from Gabe to meet with you at ten a.m., so you decided that you’d call Gavin Newsome, the former mayor of San Francisco and current fuck of Anderson Cooper’s, to solicit some help with iWWINN®. Gavin was a high-end user of iWWINN®, treating every appliance and every gathering as if it was a prelude to The Last Supper. It was very early on the West Coast, but Gavin was an early riser. Only he didn’t answer the phone…  
  
_”Hello?”_  
  
You knew it wasn’t Gavin, but you said it anyway, “Gavin?”  
  
_”Kinney?”_  
  
“Hi, Anderson. Gavin around?”  
  
“ _In the shower.”_  
  
You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Anderson Cooper that you were afraid your iWWINN® was broken, although he had a set, too. “Can you ask him to call me?”  
  
“ _Sure.”_  
  
There was an insincerity in Anderson’s voice that both of you pretended wasn’t there. Sometimes rich fags with public personas and fat wallets could be so unbelievably cunty. (Then again, the fact that Gavin blew you in the hot tub on your first iWWINN® retreat while you were chanting, _I wwinn. I wwinn. I wwinn,_ under your breath may’ve had something to do with it.)  
  
You were disgusted at yourself, but unable to stop kissing Anderson’s ass, “That was great report you did on those women who snort _Crystal Light_ the other night.”  
  
_“Desperate housewives.”_  
  
……  
  
“Right. Well, if you could just let Gavin know I called, I’d appreciate it.”  
  
“ _Sure._ ”  
  
*******************  
_I’ll do all the laundry if you’ll pay all the bills_  
  
So your plans to settle up with iWWINN® before the next hour of reckoning—lunchtime—were gradually disappearing. And that was non-trivial because you knew you’d done more than just fallen off the weight wagon while vacationing at The Rockford. It was more like you’d been kicked off of it, stripped naked, and dragged through the town square in concentric circles.  
  
You drummed your fingers on your desk…  
  
Checked your email…  
  
Checked it again…  
  
Called the twenty-four hour, exclusive, toll-free number for iWWINN® technical support and listened to their latest updates… _”At this time, all of iWWINN®’s modules are up and running. Thank you for calling iWWINN®, and remember, with iWWINN® you’re always a Wwinner!”_  
  
(You had to win the Apple account just to change their utterly asinine marketing.)  
  
It was your personal policy not to publicize the fact that you were on a ‘wellness regime,’ and you were hoping that Justin hadn’t noticed you surfing the ‘net on your honeymoon trying to find the true fat content of young artiste-ejaculate. (Because let’s face it, you weren’t giving _that_ up.) iWWINN® found the answer for you and after receiving a firm ‘no’ when asking if you were willing to remove that from your meal plan, informed you that an extra seventy-five to ninety minutes a week of aerobic exercise would negate the intake altogether. That you could do. Plus, you could still eat his ass all you wanted. According to iWWINN®, eating ass was ‘not recognized as a significant caloric contributor.’  
  
Your frustration was mounting with your denied access to your daily routine, so you broke down and called Justin. He answered his cell on the fourth ring. You got straight to what you felt would be the crux of the conversation, “Hey. It’s me. I need you to reboot the refrigerator.”  
  
(Studies have shown that talking to your significant other as if they’re on your payroll can have unpleasant repercussions.)  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“I need you to reboot the refrigerator.”  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
“Because there’s something wrong with it.”  
  
……  
  
“ _No, there’s not._ ”  
  
……  
  
“Yes, there is.”  
  
The conversation was becoming circular, spinning rapidly down the drain.  
  
“ _No, there’s not. I just opened a very well-chilled Diet Coke. It’s working fine._ ”  
  
……  
  
“That’s not the part that’s not working.”  
  
……  
  
“ _Then I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about._ ”  
  
……  
  
You sighed, which in retrospect, was a mistake, “Look, I don’t need the refrigeration part. I need the computer part.”  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
Jesus.  
  
“Why the fuck does it matter why?”  
  
……  
  
“ _Brian, I’m working right now. Can we talk about this later, please?”_  
  
“No.”  
  
_”Do I call you up in the middle of your workday and ask you a bunch of inane questions?”_  
  
“Yes?”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
You began to tug on a stray thread hanging off your shirt, oblivious to the fact that you were unraveling your own wardrobe.  
  
……  
  
“I just need to see what I’m supposed to eat today,” you tried one more time. You were beginning to feel like you were picking a scab, unable to stop but thoroughly unimpressed with yourself.  
  
_“You need the refrigerator to tell you what to eat?”_  
  
Your forehead collided with your palm.  
  
_”And the car to tell you where to go?”_  
  
“Justin.”  
  
_“I’d love to continue this conversation, but my bat..ter…ies are dy…ing.”_  
  
Shit head.  
  
_”If I’m lethargic when you get home, just recharge me, so I can tell you who to fuck.”_  
  
“Justin.”  
  
And he was gone.  
  
_Holy Acrimony._  
  
It was nine-thirty a.m. when you abandoned iWWINN® completely, and as you began to go through the stack of messages Cynthia had given you, you looked up and saw Gabe standing in the doorway.  
  
“I’m early,” he announced apologetically, burdened with muffins and Mochachinos.  
  
“Perfect timing. Come on in.”  
  
You were starving.  
  
*******************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
_you burden me with your questions_  
  
The events of the previous day were wholly responsible for you drinking yourself stupid that same very night and ending up at Ruben’s apartment. You knew that Gabe would be less than sympathetic to your woes, and besides, you weren’t speaking to him anyway. The worst thing about crashing at Rube’s place was sleeping on his lumpy couch and waking up with _Lego_ imprints on the side of your face. You awoke earlier than you planned because your cell phone was going berserk on the coffee table. You’d missed three calls from West Virginia. You dialed the number with trepidation, unsure as to which half of Rich  & Famous was calling you.  
  
It was Famous. “ _Something is fucked up.”_  
  
“Good morning to you, too.” (Like you wanted waffles for breakfast.)  
  
“ _I’m not kidding. The fucking thing won’t stop peeping at me and asking me for shit. What’s the administrative password?”_  
  
You could hear Kinney’s refrigerator in the background, a barrage of error-beeps and random voice instructions, and then told Justin the truth, “How the fuck should I know?”  
  
“ _Because it’s your job?”_  
  
“It’s not my job. I’m a mechanic, not a butler. I hooked up the ice maker, set the clock, and plugged the fucking thing in. That’s all I know how to do.”  
  
“ _Well, where’s the manual?”_  
  
“There isn’t one.”  
  
“ _Right.”_  
  
“Listen, you told me to make it stop talking to you, so that’s all I did.” You could hear the beeps getting farther away; he was walking out of the kitchen.  
  
……  
  
The next time he spoke, he spoke much more quietly, “ _Okay, look, please come over here and help me fix this thing. He’s going to kill me. He’s already figured out that something’s wrong and he’s only been gone for two hours. Zeek, I tore his study apart trying to find that stupid tutorial he has, and I can’t find it anywhere.”_  
  
“I don’t know how to fix it.” And you weren’t going to touch _anything_ of Kinney’s ever again without Kinney’s permission.  
  
“ _Put it back the way it was. You can do that, right?”_  
  
By that time, you’d stumbled to Rube’s bathroom and were staring at your rather haggard reflection when you heard yourself giving in to him, “Look, I can try.”  
  
And listened to the relief in his voice, “ _Thank you. How long ‘til you get here?”_  
  
You told him about an hour; you needed time to shave, shower, and shit…and figure out what the fuck to do.  
  
*******************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve_  
  
Gabe sat opposite you on the other side of your desk and handed you a Mochachino and a muffin. “What kind are they?” you asked.  
  
“Cranberry and orange, I think.”  
  
“Low fat?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
You watched him pull the paper off of his muffin; he always had such a deliberateness about him. “The coffee bar at Babylon is doing really well,” you told him.  
  
“I know. Rube told me last night.”  
  
“Rube thinks we should buy a cab company; you know, complete the circle.”  
  
Gabe nodded, speaking only when he’d swallowed his first bite, “Just hired a guy to wash dishes who was just laid off from Liberty Cab. They’re in trouble over there, I think.”  
  
“Ripe for the taking?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
You pondered that idea for a while. “I think we should sell VIP passes to Babylon that include admission to both bars, a free drink in the new part, and a pre-paid ride home.”  
  
Gabe laughed, “Might as well. Otherwise, security just spends all night trying to talk those guys into letting them call a cab. That would eliminate that complete waste of time.”  
  
“And we can have them waiting outside the restaurant, too. You get your fair share of heavy hitters.”  
  
“Definitely.”  
  
You threw your muffin wrapper in the trash and folded your hands in front of you on your desk, “So, what’d you want to talk to me about? Finally going to break down and go on one of those gay cruises?”  
  
He rolled his eyes, “No, thank you. I appreciate you having that travel agent call me, but that’s just not my scene.”  
  
“You and Debbie going at it again?”  
  
“No, not at all. We’re getting along fine.”  
  
“Good.” You waited for him to continue. Gabe was deliberate with everything, including conversation.  
  
……  
  
“I wanted to apologize for my brother.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“If I’d known what he was up to, I would’ve put a stop to it.”  
  
“No need. I saw the ice machines he got. They look great. I’ll admit I wasn’t convinced he could deliver, but he did. He did a good job. I’m impressed.”  
  
……  
  
Gabe stuffed his trash into the bag he’d brought the muffins in, rose from his chair to cross your office and throw it away, “So, you’re happy with the work he’s doing?”  
  
“Yeah. Might even have him help us with the VIP backroom renovation Rube wants to do.”  
  
……  
  
Gabe smiled at you, that same smile he was wearing the day you hired him in the city, “You’re a bigger man than I am, Brian. I don’t know why I thought you’d be ready to fire him when you found out about him and Justin. I was just freaking out for no reason, as usual. Sorry I took up your time.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry,” you told him, finding yourself on your feet as he was leaving, walking around your desk, the open door of your office switching from his hand to yours, “Haven’t I always told you that sorry’s bull shit?”  
  
Gabe waved good-bye to Cynthia, and you stood there, very still...watching him walk out the door.  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Simon and Garfunkel’s _Mrs. Robinson_ from the movie _The Graduate_ , Jean Knight’s _Mr. Big Stuff_ , the Baha Men’s _Who Let the Dogs Out?_ , Pink Floyd’s _Another Brick In the Wall_ , Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ , Ray Steven’s _Shriner’s Convention_ , Styx’s _Mr. Roboto_ , Ray Steven’s _Shriner’s Convention_ again, Paula Cole’s _Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?_ , EMF’s _Unbelievable_ , and the Barenaked Ladies’s _One Week_.


	27. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 24-Contrition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 5/18/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 24-CONTRITION**  
  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
 _you had a bad day_   
  
Your morning had gone to shit the minute Brian left for work, and there’d been no stopping it ever since. The refrigerator had beeped at you when you were getting Brian’s coffee, but you’d ignored it. This apparently drove it to call all of its friends and launch what was nothing short of a mutiny. When Brian called, you ran up the stairs before answering your cell so he couldn’t hear the mechanical insubordination ensuing. And then you hung up the phone, went back downstairs, took a deep breath, and re-entered the kitchen—doing your best not to show any fear. You were going to settle this man to machine.   
  
You stood in front of the refrigerator, the obvious ring-leader of the bunch, and began to shout at it, hoping that something that came out of your mouth would qualify as the ‘administrative password.’ It seemed to need this worse than a junkie needs another hit. So you began with the obvious:  
  
“Fuck.” No dice.  
  
“Suck.”  
  
“Blow.”  
  
“Rim.”  
  
……  
  
“Fellatio.” The beeping got louder, as if you were offering.   
  
……  
  
“Sixty-nine.”  
  
“Babylon.” The dishwasher started, but it was false hope.  
……  
  
“Justin.”  
  
“Justin Taylor.”  
  
……  
  
“Ass.” (Admittedly, that was just name-calling.)  
  
……  
  
And then you brought out the big guns; it gave you no other choice, “Sunshine.”  
  
Nothing.  
  
……  
  
“Shutthefuckupyoumotherfuckingpieceofshi

t.”

Not even close.

*******************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**

_mama told me not to come_

You smoked three cigarettes on the way to West Virginia trying to figure out if you should quit your job, let Kinney fire you, or just let him sucker punch really hard. The third option was preferable because if he lost his temper, you knew you could take him. Kinney might be rich and smart, but he was no match for you in muscle mass. He couldn’t bench press your arm.

But somehow, none of that made you feel any better.

When you arrived at the house, Justin was standing outside in something that looked exactly like what a Kinney harem-member would wear, barefoot on the brick steps. You followed him into Kinney’s kitchen and became an immediate witness to nothing short of an electronic coup d'etat. You stood in the doorway, right on the edge of the black and white checkerboard floor, almost afraid to go any further, “Oh my god.”

“No shit,” Justin told you, bravely walking around the island as every appliance cursed him, “It’s some sort of kitchen collusion or something. They fucking hate me.”

“Well, if worse comes to worst, I’ll just cut the power to the whole house.” That’ll show ‘em.

“The hell you will. That’ll probably trigger the F.B.I. It’s bad enough that they’re already calling Brian…damn tattletales.”

You made your hand into a pistol that you couldn’t control as you walked from appliance to appliance, “All right, damnit, which one of you called The Wizard?”

By that time, Justin had fallen into a chair at the kitchen table in defeat, “It was the fridge. Trust me.” You called the fridge a traitor and blew it away. Justin wasn’t very impressed, “Don’t you have some real ideas?”

You wielded the screwdriver that lived in your back pocket and prayed for inspiration.

*******************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**

_these are the days it never rains but it pours_

When you looked up and saw Brian standing in the doorway of the kitchen, drops of rain coloring his shirt, your first reaction was to look out the kitchen window and ascertain that it was, in fact, raining. He followed your gaze and then told you, “I couldn’t park in the garage.”

Zeek answered him, “I’m in the way.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’ll go move.”

Brian was still looking at you when he replied, “I’m blocking you in.”

“Right.”

……

No one was going anywhere.

……

You stared at Brian, at his blank, expressionless face, a fight or flight urge building inside you. You made a fateful decision…to fight. “This isn’t his fault, Brian. It’s mine.”

“Oh?”

You wanted to smack him as he stood there, tell him that coming home from work because of a fucking appliance had to be the stupidest thing you’d ever heard. But there was a part of you that found an angry Brian slightly terrifying, and that feeling wasn’t the least bit abated by the almost cowering posture Zeek had adopted. You wanted to smack him, too—for being a chicken shit. But instead you told Brian, “He’s just putting it back the way it was.”

It was a lie and you knew it. You and Zeek had given up on that half an hour ago; now you were just trying to find its vocal cords and yank them out. Zeek was facing you, away from Brian, and his eyes began to plead with you like a defenseless puppy that’d just been spanked with yesterday’s newspaper, so you added, “Because I told him to.” Zeek looked immediately relieved, as if you’d let the puppy out to piss all over those obnoxious statues in the garden.

“So if you want to be mad at someone, you’re just going to have to mad at me.”

“Consider it done.”

You glared at Brian when he said that, putting your hand on Zeek’s shoulder as you told him, “Just go.”

“He’s blocking me in.”

You’d had enough of this week’s episode of _Alpha Males Gone Wild,_ “Brian, go move your car and let him out.”

At first, you didn’t think Brian was capable of moving an inch in his frozen state, but then he surprised you, nodding at Zeek to follow him out.

“Just leave your tools, okay?” you told him. “I’ll put everything away.”

“I’m sorry,” Zeek said.

“It’s not your fault. It’s okay.”

Zeek was giving you an apologetic look, when Brian hollered from the front door, “Any day now.”

“This is bullshit,” Zeek mumbled as he walked away, leaving you standing by yourself in the kitchen.

*******************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**

_your future’s so unclear now,  
what’s left of your career now?_

A man and his tools should never be separated.

The sky opened up when you walked outside with Brian, the weather precluding conversation as much as anything else. Consequently, you were soaked as you drove back to Pittsburgh, blasting the heat to help you dry off while you navigated the back roads. The visibility was so bad it took you over an hour to get back. Once you crossed back over into Pennsylvania, you’d already made the decision. You were going back to the city.

Arriving at Babylon, you’d never been quite so happy that your best friend of late was a bartender. Rube served while you drank, with no mention of the fact that it wasn’t even lunch time yet. He sympathized with your situation, but became immediately melancholy when you told him you were leaving.

“But I just bought a house. You can live with me if you want, if you don’t want to live with your brother.”

“Can’t. Boss Man’s got me on the black book now—"

“You mean ‘black list.’”

“Whatever. I’ll end up as the ‘Assistant Manager of Dog Crap’ or some shit.”

“Brian doesn’t have a dog.”

“Not yet.”

*******************  
 **JUSTIN’S POV**

_you just did just what I thought you were gonna do_

Brian came back in the house through the kitchen while you were putting Zeek’s tools back in his toolbox. He said nothing, and you listened to his footsteps as he went up the stairs. You carried Zeek’s tools down to the basement and put them by the cellar door, called his cell and left a message, telling him he could come get them whenever he wanted. When you went upstairs to your studio; Brian was in the shower; you could hear the water running.

The next time you looked up, Brian was standing in the doorway of your studio, a towel wrapped around his waist. He leaned against the door frame, lit a cigarette, and asked, “What’re you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you answered. Half the mural was already covered in a primer coat.

“It looks like you’re painting over something that cost me a lot of money.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have bought it,” you told him. It was the first time you’d spoken about the mural since the fight that, oddly enough, launched your honeymoon.

……

He changed the subject, “Why didn’t you tell me Rocky was your pity fuck?”

“He wasn’t my pity fuck,” you told him, walking across your studio and cracking two windows. The smell of the primer was getting to you.

“It’s raining, Justin,” he scolded you, walking across the room and started to close them.

“Don’t shut them. It’s my studio, and I want them open.” The sound of the rain was the only thing keeping you calm.

……

“He’s just not your type, that’s all.”

You laughed, “Right,” and switched to a clean brush. “A tall, dark top who’s rough around the edges. Don’t tax your brain trying to figure that one out.” Brian had taken a seat on a stool across from your art table, his legs open, when you rolled your eyes and told him, “Go put your clothes on.”

……

He ignored your request, so you repeated it, “I said, ‘Go get dressed.’”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you and your dewy, glistening chest. That’s why.”

“Whatever,” he said as he walked away, yanking his towel completely off before he was out of sight: _It’s customary for the alpha-male to bare his ass when challenged by a smaller member of the pack…_

(Sometimes Brian moved in metaphors that you weren’t even sure he was aware of.)  
……

When he returned, he modeled a gray knit shirt and blue jeans for you, and asked, “Does this meet with your approval?”

“That’s better.”

“Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way,” he said, lighting another cigarette from his location on the opposite side of your art table.

“You know, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” you told him.

“What? Look so fucking hot when I smoke?”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Since when?” he wanted to know.

“Since now.”

“Well, far be it from me to get in the way of any of your personal endeavors,” he replied, letting the cigarette extinguish in your coffee from hours earlier. “That better, my fair—?”

“Just shut the fuck up, okay?”

“Is that another order?” You shook your head at him in disgust. “’Cause I want to make sure I’m three for three.”

“You’re batting a thousand, Brian, don’t worry.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” and he stood up, pacing back and forth in front of your table. The sound of the rain insulated the two of you in the studio, a silence that was so quiet it made your ears hurt, interrupted only by the smack of your brush on the canvas.

……

“I don’t give a shit who you fucked, Justin.” You didn’t doubt the veracity of that statement. You knew he didn’t give a rat’s ass. “I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me.”

“It was none of your business?”

“None of my business?”

At that point, you’d moved to the sink to wash the pile of brushes you’d dirtied, so you were turned, almost with your back to him, when you began, “The last time I fucked Zeek was on October 13, 2007. It was a Saturday…at a wedding reception. He wore one of those ribbed condoms—the ones you hate; we fucked in the coat closet. I was wearing a tux and my pants were in a heap around my ankles. He took me from behind, and it lasted maybe seven to ten minutes. When he came, he said, 'Goddamn Eg—'"

“Okay.”

“I told him to be quiet. That someone was going to hear us.”

Brian walked away from you, “You made your point.”

But you didn’t care, “And then Harper’s brand new husband, Sam, flung open the closet door and saw us, and said, ‘Jesus, we haven’t even had cake.’”

“I get it.”

And you weren’t done yet, “And then Zeek said, ‘I just had mine,’ and left. And then I cleaned my cum off Daniel’s wall before he found out and had a coronary. The end. Do you see now why it’s none of your business?”

He did.

……

“You better not fire him, Brian.”

“Yeah, well, that’s none of _your_ business.”

*******************  
 _I know what you’re doing,  
I see it all too clear _

You’d been home for exactly thirteen days at that point. It seemed like so much longer when you looked back over your shoulder at the distance you and Brian had traveled. Sometimes you wondered if the two of you were walking in circles. You were about to find out.

You were slapping your paintbrush on the mural, back and forth, back and forth, watching your hand move when you spoke, “Well, since we’re on the subject, is the fact that you’re paying for Molly’s education none of my business, too?”

“You went in my desk,” he replied, his jaw starting to set firm.

“Only because I was trying in vain to save your precious life-bots.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But, you know, Brian, I’m glad I did. Because if I hadn’t, I would’ve never known that my father has written you three letters asking you to call off the dogs. One as recently as two months ago.”

He stood up that time and walked to the window, staring at the wet trees, “Your father’s an asshole.”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing. It’s just business.”

You crossed the studio and were standing behind his right shoulder when you asked again, “What did you do?”

He turned around and looked you right in the face, unashamed, and confessed, “I bought up all of the property next to, in front of, behind, anywhere near his store and sat on it. He has to expand to stay in the game, to be able to compete with the big boys. He can’t expand, so he can’t compete.”

“You’re going to put him out of business?”

“More or less.” You threw your hands up in defeat, but he just kept right on talking, “And I’m paying for your little sister’s education because your father’s in no financial shape to do so, trust me.”

“Jesus, Brian.”

“He had it coming.”

“I can’t believe you would do something like this.”

It wasn’t exactly a true statement. You could very easily believe it; you just really didn’t want to. You watched him walk across the hall into his study and close the door. You slammed yours, and collapsed on your futon, steeling yourself against the claustrophobic sadness overtaking you. The fabric still smelled like the city. Cigarettes and turpentine.

*******************  
 _but the black holes that surround you are heavier by far_

The quiet that fell over the house for the next hour or so was stifling—heavy like the cold, humid air still pouring into your studio. You refused to close the windows, preferring to add injury to the insult. The stack of blank canvases leaning against the wall next to the futon looked so perfect, descending dimensions precisely arranged, the lighting above your head, each track head facing the same direction. Everything prepped and ready for the moment that wouldn’t come. Or couldn’t come. The disappointment of realizing that semantics were the only thing rising to the surface…

_“Just remember, the only difference between good art and love—"_

_“Is that art lasts longer.”_

And lately even that was fleeting.

When you tired of the standoff and crossed the hall to Brian’s study and knocked on the door, he didn’t answer. You opened the door, expecting to see him at his desk, but instead your eyes wandered to the floor, to his body propped against a wall of bookcases, an almost depleted bottle of Scotch stuck between his legs. He was asleep, his fingers still wrapped around his cheap, instant-salvation. Then the bottle stood guard on the corner of his desk watching as you sat down beside him and put your hand on his shoulder. You’d hoped to convince him to go get lunch for the two of you, unwilling to tackle the ever-disobedient kitchen right then, but he was in no shape to do so. Nudging him awake wasn’t easy, but when his eyes opened he smiled at you and slurred, “Sunshine.”

“Come on. Get up.”

You led him to your bedroom, told him to lie down, and went back to his study to order lunch in, rattling off Brian’s credit card number as if it was your name, rank, and serial number.

“I ordered a pizza,” you told him, rejoining him on the bed and still trying to figure out how to get them to just deliver it straight to the bedroom.

“I’m not supposed to have pizza today,” he told you.

“It’s not for you.”

He laughed and then fell back asleep, and you sat beside him just watching him snore, your fingers playing with his hair as if they were unaware as to the rest of you felt right then. You ate your lunch in bed next to him, downing half the pizza, two reruns of _Fraiser_ , and half of a very cold two-liter of _Diet Coke with Lime._

When Brian awoke about an hour later, you were back in your studio covering the mural, and you jumped in your skin when you looked up and saw him in all of his bed-head glory standing in the doorway.

“You’re up.”

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” he responded. You’d gotten used to it, but you walked across the room anyway and shut both of the windows.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah. Did you eat pizza in our bed?”

“Yep.”

“Any left?”

“Half of it. I slid it under the bed. I’m not going back downstairs until you quell the robot-riot in the kitchen.”

……

He was gone for about ten minutes and then returned with a cup of coffee, “All quiet on the Western front.”

“Good.”

……

……

“You want me to leave you alone?” he asked.

“I want you to undo whatever you did to my father.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, you’re Brian Kinney. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

*******************  
 _under the bridge downtown  
is where I drew some blood_

He gave you a less than flattering look and disappeared from the doorway. You were tiring of the smell of paint, so you washed your hands and found him in your bedroom, your brushes left behind soaking in the sink. Brian was sitting in the chair by the window, his bare feet propped up on the table next to it, his empty coffee cup in his lap. You sat in the chair opposite his, your legs tucked underneath you and watched him as he circled the rim of the mug with his fingers. Minutes passed in silence until you found what you wanted to say. Brian’s eyes lifted when he heard your voice,

“Your father’s dead, Brian. Don’t punish mine.”

He was so still, you weren’t even sure if he heard you.

……

When he spoke his voice was low and quiet and almost seeped in resignation, “I used to sit by your hospital bed for hours every night when you were in a coma.” You were ready to tell him that you knew, that your mother had told you right before your wedding that never was, but he didn’t seem interested in your response. “I always came late, right after the shift change because your parents would be long gone and so would the nurses that knew them better than they knew me. It wasn’t even visiting hours anymore, but I befriended one the nurses so she’d let me stay. There was a boy in the room next to yours who was also in a coma. Car wreck or something. He died the first night I was there.”

“You never told me—"

“It was awful. He arrested and everyone was panicking and suddenly it was like you and I were the only two people on the floor who weren’t in that room trying to make that boy live. I got really nervous, worried that if something happened to you, there wouldn’t be enough people left to help you. So I just kept staring at the monitors, praying that the beeping I was hearing stayed exactly the same.” He drew a sine wave in the air.

“Did it?”

“Yeah”

“You thought I was going to die.”

“I thought your body would, but I knew the rest of you would just keep on going.”

“Haunting you?”

His eyes shifted, looking at you for a moment, but they went right through you, almost a clean slice. “And then afterward, I’d go to Babylon to get my dick sucked because it broke the mood I was always in when I left you.”

“It made you forget.”

“Yeah.”

“You felt guilty.” You were asking, but it didn’t really sound like a question.

“Helpless,” he admitted.

“Right.”

……

“I was Brian Fucking Kinney, and there wasn’t one fucking thing I could do to make you wake up.” He laughed, but there was no joy in it, “Once I had this dream that you sat up in that bed, opened your eyes, looked at me, and then slapped me across the face.”

“Brian.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare. It felt really good. I’d want you to keep hitting me, but I’d always wake up.” He leaned forward, sitting the coffee mug on the desk and then sat back again, his fingers curling around either armrest, “And then the club blows up, and all I could think was that that was the slap. That was what I’d been waiting for.”

“Stop it.”

……

He stopped, falling silent again at your request.

“I don’t want this to haunt us for the rest of our lives, Brian.” He smirked at your suggestion. “I’m serious. It’s not your fault that Chris hit me, and I don’t need you to fight my battles. They’re my demons, and I can deal with them.”

His eyes narrowed, coming back to the moment as he looked at you, no longer through you, “Right, Justin. That’s why you’re in there painting over them.”

The rain stopped.

*******************  
 _thunder only happens when it’s raining_

Brian left you alone in your bedroom minutes later, and the next few hours passed slowly as you wandered back and forth between your studio and your bedroom—moments of slippery inspiration routinely followed by moments of exhaustion. One seemed to feed the other, and it left you restless, unable to settle down or accomplish anything. Around dinnertime, you ventured back into the kitchen, no evidence left of its earlier tantrum. You made yourself a salad and poked your head out the kitchen door into the garage to see if Brian’s car was still there. It was, but there was no sign of him. You left your salad bowl in the sink and took the stairs down to the basement to see if Brian was taking up residence in the wine cellar, but like the pricey bottle of wine you’d downed more than a week before, you came up empty. When you looked toward the door that led from the cellar to the driveway, you noticed immediately that Zeek’s tools were gone.

Back in your studio, the mural was completely covered and almost dry, no evidence of its former image remaining, yet it didn’t feel like a blank canvas to you like you’d hoped. An hour later would find you covering it again, the tarp haphazardly thrown over it on the table where it would remain for a while. You sat down at your computer and began to doodle, the process of creating something and then erasing it completely compelling you to sit there for almost an hour and half when it felt like fifteen minutes. It was still February, but you suspected your muse of spring cleaning on the sly.

It was almost eleven o’clock when you finally turned off the lights in your studio, closed the door, and began to put some effort into looking for Brian, the house always an imposing presence when the lights were off.

……

“I didn’t even know we had a tanning bed,” you told him when you found him in the sauna, sitting in a corner in the dark with a white towel draped over his lap, the built-in widescreen TV making the air look blue and misty. He muted the television when you walked through the door.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I didn’t even know we had a tanning bed.’”

“Oh…yeah. We do.”

……

“What’re you watching?”

“I don’t know. Some dumb ass movie-of-the-week. It’s kind of like the Amy Fisher story meets _Ghost_.”

He bent his knees when you walked the steps to the top row and sat down beside him, the blue light from the television casting shadows on his chest.

……

“It’s hot in here,” you announced once you’d been sitting for all of fifteen seconds.

“Yeah, well, it’s a sauna.”

……

……

Brian’s foot nudged its way behind your back, so you turned your eyes from the television to him. “Come here, Justin.”

You moved closer to him, leaning back against him when his arms slid underneath yours. He held your hands as he held you, pressing them against your stomach. He was kissing the back of your neck when he urged your right hand inside your pants, peeling your underwear away from your damp skin as the spirit-Lolita walked through the wall of her lover’s bedroom so she could watch him fucking his wife. Brian’s hand was wrapping yours around your dick and then leaving it to its own devices as it slid between your legs, smoothing along your inner thigh.

“Undress,” he told you, right as the cheating husband stopped moving, swearing to his wife that there was someone in the room. Sprit-Lolita was suddenly wielding a knife.

“I don’t like this movie,” you said.

“Turn it off.”

That was easier said than done since both of your hands were in your pants at that point. He laughed when you cocked your head back and gave him a _and just how am I supposed to do that_ look, and turned it off with his foot, kicking the remote so that it spun across the wooden slats and ricocheted against the far corner. Seconds later, your clothes joined it on the other side of the sauna.

You felt yourself wetting your lips as his hand ran down the side of your body, as you could hear his arousal stitched into each breath, feel him hard against your back. His fingers tucked your hair behind your ear before his lips were behind it, his kiss making a feathery chill spread beneath your skin.

The television was still glowing when he told you to lean forward on your knees, pulling your thighs apart and toward him as you felt him licking you, his tongue soft enough to drive you mad yet hard enough to fuck. He was more than generous with his mouth, never discouraging you when your body took over, demanding things from him. It wasn’t long before you needed to come just to justify the warmth flooding you, the sweat beading down your chest. You watched it, your hand wet with it as you fucked it, a frenzy you were trying desperately to steer. You heard yourself grunting, panting, telling him not to stop—still begging him as you came in your hand, a pearly-white heat bleeding through your fingers.

He rose behind you when you were trying to swallow, to catch your breath, inviting himself inside you, his breath hot as he wrapped himself overtop of you, his forehead bearing down on your back. He fucked you like that, cowering over you, one arm snaking around your waist, hand curving around your thigh.

It went on forever, that sensation of being fucked and sheltered at the same time, a symbiotic relationship thriving between the two. Every forward motion you were forced to make corrected with his grip. It was almost more than you could take and yet, not nearly enough.

……

The sauna was completely dark when he came, completely dark when he released you, completely dark when you fumbled for him, not ready for it to be over. You fell against his chest as he circled you with his arms and then his legs, and then closed your eyes so you could really smell him, the scent feral and comforting—a blanket woven of jagged teeth.

……

……

“Bed, Sunshine,” he whispered, pushing you to your reluctant feet, your clothes dangling from his fingers as the two of you abandoned the sauna and went up the stairs.

*******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**

_when the rain washes you clean,  
you’ll know_

Back in your bedroom that night, he rode you, the roaring fire a cheap mimic of the sauna’s heat, and what you remember most about it were the shadows his body cast looming large against the wall and halfway onto the ceiling, the way it changed as he got closer to closer to orgasm. He didn’t see you smiling at him when his pace increased because he was staring at his hands, and then so were you--at the indentions they were making in your chest.

“Fuck me, Justin.”

And then there was only one hand pressing against your chest as he jerked off on top of you. You came holding his hips against you as hard as you could, your head back as he soaked your chest. He lay on top of you when it was over, keeping you inside him for as long as he could, and when you felt the evidence of your encounter making itself known on your thigh, you realized that it wasn’t affection keeping him there but rather sleep—a sweet, sound sleep. You closed your eyes and joined him, and although the sun rose on the two of you no longer entwined, neither of you would have any memory of how or when that separation occurred.

*******************  
 _you’re burnin’ up the quarter mile_

_“Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, February 23, 2011. The time is seven forty-five a.m. The current temperature is fifty-seven degrees under partly sunny skies. You may enter your destination now.”_

“KINNETIK.”

_”Thank you. Kinnetik is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”_

You started your day internalizing the smooth acceleration of the Mercedes, letting it pulse through you as you drove, propel you into your company, your office, your productive day. But after only half an hour, you felt more like Sisyphus than Superman, one rock after another getting in your way. It started when Rube called in sick for the first time ever in your employ, which led you to radio Zeek and tell him that you needed him to manage the club that night. A chaotic Thursday night would set the stage for an unprofitable weekend. Zeek agreed with much less bravado and more information than you were expecting,

“ _No problem, but Friday’s my last day, Boss Man.”_

“What?”

“ _You heard me.”_

“Friday is tomorrow, Zeek.”

“ _Shit, you’re right. Sorry. Tomorrow’s my last day.”_

“Zeek.”

_”Rube’s sick?”_

“Yeah.”

_”Gotta go. But I’ll be there tonight. Got it under control.”_

“Zeek, tomorrow is not your last day. You can’t just—"

You threw your cell phone on the desk. He’d already hung up.

*******************  
 _if you wanna be happy for the rest of your life,  
never make a pretty woman your wife_

Zeal was fairly busy when you stopped by for lunch, hoping to talk to Gabe, but were greeted by Emmett instead.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kinney? Table for one?”

“Cut it out. Where’s Gabe?”

“Dentist.”

“Right.”

Emmett shrugged and led you to your table. Erica waved when she saw you, engaging in her perfectly executed hair flip when she smiled. Emmett sat you, handed you a menu (as if you needed one), and then leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Don’t tell her, but she’s wearing one navy pump and one black pump today. I swear to god, she can’t tell the difference.”

“Well, just keep her behind the hostess stand then.” (He laughed and then realized that you were serious.)

……

“Can I get you something from the bar, Mr. Kinney?” His eyes never left yours while you were ordering, a technique you knew only too well. It was a Gabe Zirrolli trademark.

“Sapphire and tonic.”

“Excellent choice, sir.”

“Would you cut it out?”

“Be right back,” he chirped, sliding your menu out of your hand.

“I can’t wait.”

……

Emmett returned moments later with your drink, a glass of water, and the salad you always ate, and then invited himself to dine with you. His knees bumped yours under the table, and the two of you jockeyed for space and eventually got comfortable again. Em’s face was resting in his hands while you ate, drinking the glass of water that you thought was for you. To your recollection, the last meaningful conversation you’d had with Emmett consisted of him explaining to you why he was going to spit instead of swallowing from now on because, “Spunk is giving me love handles.” You told him that was called the ‘Fellatio Fifteen,’ and he believed you.

“So why are you dining alone today?” he wanted to know.

You felt defensive all of a sudden, but weren’t exactly sure why. “I’m not. There’s this really annoying Assistant Manager Wannabe who won’t leave me alone.” You stabbed your lettuce as if it deserved it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brian. It’s unbecoming.”

You pointed to the glass of water he was sipping, “I thought that was mine.”

“Don’t like to share?” Your eyebrow arched at his suggestion, albeit without your permission.

Erica was wafting by at that moment, and you tried to look covertly at her shoes. Emmett called her name and when she turned around, asked, “Erica, sweetie, can you bring Brian his own glass of water? He wants to have one all to himself.”

“Certainly.”

When she was out of range, you told Emmett, “You’re right. Her shoes are different.”

“It’s sad, really,” Emmett bemused. “It’s like she’s a fag hag without a fag.”

“Tragic.”

……

“So how’s Justin?”

“Fine.”

“What’s he doing today? Anybody special?”

You put your fork down with more emphasis than that salad merited, “Well, since you asked. _Me._ ”

Emmett sighed, “Must be a slow day, huh?”

*******************  
 _Mr. Wizard can’t perform no god-like hocus pocus_

It’s fair to say that you’ve spent your life and made your fortune managing relationships, knowing which ones deserved massaging and which were inconsequential. But even the fact that you’d survived marriage for an entire two weeks couldn’t have prepared you for the fiasco that’d befallen your first-string management. It was a certified, grade-A, cluster fuck that made your previous adventures in Lesbian Relationship Counseling seem like child’s play.

It started with your second Sapphire and Tonic at lunch…the realization that maybe if you were a bit more charming with Emmett, his mouth would run like melted butter. So you schmoozed him a little, just enough to learn that Rube wasn’t exactly sick, but rather, was taking a ‘mental health day.’

“He’s depressed,” Emmett told you.

“Why?”

“Zeek’s leaving, going back to the city.”

“Where’s Gabe?” The two were rarely that far apart.

“Probably in some confessional somewhere begging for forgiveness.”

You believed that; Gabe can’t function unless he’s on good terms with his soul. And that worried you because you needed him at work, not at church.

“Where’s Zeek right now?” you asked.

“Not sure. But I can guarantee you it’s not West Virginia.”

You tossed your napkin on the table, thanked Emmett for the service, and drove to Ruben’s apartment. Zeek’s van was parked outside. When you knocked on the door, Zeek was the one who opened it, a frightened expression filling his face when he realized you weren’t his little brother. Ruben was sitting in the middle of his living room floor putting his dominos in their box. You slid your hands in your pockets and relaxed your posture as you walked up to him, “Thought you were sick.”

Zeek was standing so that Rube was essentially between the two of you, and Rube didn’t even look up when Zeek spoke, “Leave him alone, okay?”

You pointed to Ruben, “ _He’s_ not at work because you’re leaving. Gabe’s not at work because you’re leaving. I’m not at work because you’re leaving. See a pattern here Zeek?”

“I just think it’s better if I go. You understand.”

“Why? Because you fucked Justin?”

Rube muttered to the dominos he was painstakingly arranging, “Uh oh.” He had a tendency to embody Rain Man when he was anxious, and you had to fight the overwhelming urge you had to send him to his room.

Zeek continued, “I didn’t just fuck him, man. I fucked him _a lot._ ”

(“Oh shit.”

“Rube, calm down, man.”

“Okay.”)

“I swear on my mother’s lasagna; I had no idea he was your piece of ass.”

“He’s not my ‘piece of ass,’” you replied. And then, “Okay, well, sometimes he is.”

“Don’t blame you, Boss Man. Don’t blame you one bit. Ass like that’ll keep you coming back for more.” He immediately clarified himself, “But not me. Won’t be going anywhere near it. Absolutely not.”

……

……

“So, you’re staying then?” you asked.

You saw the relief in Rube’s body when Zeek agreed, “Yep. I’ll stay.”

“Good because you’re the only one that knows the ins and outs of the club and the restaurant—"

“’Ins and outs.’ Bad choice of words, Boss Man.”

Rube was laughing, so you kicked his leg, “Put your toys away and go back to work.” And then you turned to Zeek, “Where’s Gabe?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Well, I expect you to find him and resolve this shit between you by tonight. I’m not gonna have my interests jeopardized because you guys want to win first prize in a drama queen pageant.”

“You’re here, too,” Zeek reminded you, his fearless disposition returning.

“Shut up.”

……

You walked back to the parking lot with Zeek, and when he got to his van and was about to hop in, you stopped him, “If you ever touch anything in my kitchen again, you’ll need to go a lot farther than New York City.”

“You’re kind of weird, you know that?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, Boss Man. That’s why you’re weird. But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson: what’s yours is yours and what’s yours isn’t mine. Deal?”

“Deal.”

You rode back to the office trying to figure out why that made perfect sense.

You spent the rest of the day returning phone calls, mending fences that had fallen in your absences, shaking your head at the ad copy that was landing on your desk. The longer you were gone, you concluded, the sloppier they got. The only person who never did anything differently, regardless of where you were or what you were doing, was Theodore. That’s what happens when you start bumping into forty; you realize that what you used to think was ‘boring’ you now appreciated as ‘consistent.’ And because of Theodore and his never-ending attention to detail, you’d signed, approved, and vetoed everything that you needed to by three o’clock and were able to focus your attention on your last task for the day.

*******************  
 _I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control_

When you arrived home that night, there was a non-iWWINN® dinner and a fuck for dessert, both on the kitchen table. While Justin was cleaning up from both, you brought your briefcase in from the foyer, laid it on the kitchen counter, and snapped it open. You waited until his domesticity was winding down before presenting him with an envelope.

“What’s this?” he asked as you closed your briefcase and sat it on the floor.

“You told me to figure it out. So I did.”

Justin turned the envelope over and began to open it, letting the documents unfold in his hand. “What is it?”

You gave him a minute to read what was in his hand, and then told him, “It’s the deed to all of the property I bought around your father’s store.”

He looked confused, “But it’s in my name.”

“That’s right. It belongs to you now. What you do with it is up to you.”

 

 

Lyrics taken from Daniel Powter’s _Bad Day_ , Three Dog Night’s _Mama Told Me Not to Come_ , David Bowie featuring Queen’s _Under Pressure_ , Frankie Avalon’s _Beauty School Drop-Out_ from the movie _Grease_ , Barenaked Ladies’s _One Week_ , Duncan Sheik’s _Barely Breathing_ , Red Hot Chili Pepper’s _Under the Bridge_ , Fleetwood Mac’s _Dreams_ twice, John Travolta’s _Grease Lightin’_ from the soundtrack of the movie _Grease_ , Jimmy Soul’s _If You Wanna Be Happy_ , Smashmouth’s _Walkin’ on the Sun_ , and Styx’s _Mr. Roboto_.   



	28. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 25-Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 5/29/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 25-SEMANTICS**  
  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_It may sound absurd  
but don’t be naïve_  
  
They say that every journey begins with a single step, but that’s problematic when you’d rather not wear shoes and can’t pack anything since you don’t know where or when you’re going. The best you can do is throw caution to the wind and hope that, in the end, you were able to pick up a few souvenirs. And if one of them was hindsight it would be worth every penny. And then, of course, there’s the fundamental problem with all journeys: you never know you’re on one until it’s over.  And so looking back, you can take a helicopter ride over marriage and see it for what it really is: an amusement park that entices you during the fly over—the fun, the excitement, cotton candy, games of chance, but once you’re eye-level with it, you realize that the upside-down roller coaster that looked like a piece of cake from high in the sky is actually pretty fucking scary.  And then you see someone you love, someone who shares your house, your bed, your shower, already in line and waving madly for you to join him in the very first car. So you break a few rules, jump the guard rails, and join him, and the ride is exhilarating and he’s smiling at you during the tick, tick, tick up the hill and then you stop right at the top of a nine-story drop and teeter back and forth, the adrenaline pushing your stomach into your toes...  
  
He wasn’t buckled in?  
  
To the best of your recollection…  
  
The first descent you acknowledged in your marriage came weeks after you’d presented Justin with his bone of contention (unsure if he’d bite or bury it), weeks after you and Zeek managed to converse with one another without impersonating conjoined peacocks. It came in mid-March when Justin started working at PIFA. He’d been given office space in advance of the seminar he was to teach that summer, and, at first, it felt like exactly what he needed—to get out of the house.  
  
You’d hoped that the two of you would drive to work together on the days he went in, but that left him without a car and at the mercy of your schedule. So, the two of you typically left at the same time each morning, and he’d follow you to Pittsburgh, waving good-bye when he approached his exit. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to be on the phone up until the moment you went your separate ways, and it never failed that, at the moment of departure, you’d begun thinking about how you wanted to fuck him that night or maybe just kiss him, tease him—really slowly—for a really long time. Consequently, you were always hard while you were being instructed to _have a productive day._  
  
On the mornings he didn’t go in, the drive seemed to take forever.  
  
But on the mornings that he did, the early-morning fuck morphed into the lunch fuck, the two of you meeting at the loft to consummate the day. It became a routine that although comfortable was never boring. You were addicted to it, knowing that the aggravation of your morning was going to be mercilessly fondled until it melted away. But it was more than that, too, because you weren’t fucking him in a six a.m. fog, you were wide awake—watching him undress—making love to him, soaking in his smile, showering away the carnal evidence. Conversation out of the way during the morning commute, it was the ultimate guilty pleasure—knowing that you had an hour to please him and that when time was up, the endorphins coursing through your body would last you the rest of the day. Everyone on your management team knew when you were having a ‘nooner,’ and not a one of them minded. In fact, Cynthia told you that the more you were in Justin’s ass, the less you behaved like one. You took her word for it.  
  
On the days he didn’t go in, you found yourself skipping lunch so you wouldn’t miss it so badly.  
  
He was spending less and less time in his studio at the house, but you didn’t give it much thought because he had work space at PIFA; you always assumed he was working there instead. But when you saw it, you knew that wasn’t the case. His office, which wasn’t just his, was a room on the third floor no bigger than a janitor’s closet. He shared the space with a girl named Andrea who was apparently the PIFA-appointed assistant to all guest faculty. There was no room for an easel of any type, and it was clearly built as an afterthought with poorly constructed bookshelves and a four-paneled window of cloudy glass covered with vertical blinds. That seemed odd to you, but, then again, the whole place was odd. You were convinced that the whole building was full of asbestos and that PIFA should’ve had civil engineers in there doing an official study. One day, in bed at the loft, Justin made it clear that he didn’t share your concern,  
  
“I really wish you’d shut up about that, Brian.”  
  
“Every time you come home from work, there’s a bunch of white stuff in your hair.”  
  
“That’s from the ceiling tiles, Brian. They’re really old.”  
  
“And probably full of asbestos.”  
  
“Maybe you should have them come and check out Kinnetik. That place is older than PIFA. It should’ve been condemned; the only thing holding it up is fossilized jizz.”  
  
You told yourself never to say a word about all the white shit in his hair again.  
  
*******************  
_how can you catch the sparrow?_  
  
You were the third car back at a busy intersection in Pittsburgh one day when you saw Justin crossing in front of you in the ‘vette. He hadn’t ridden in with you that morning; you’d assumed he was at home. So you dialed his cell, but he didn’t answer. You looked at the clock on your dashboard: _12:42 p.m._ Maybe he was in town having lunch with Jennifer. You tried him again, and he answered this time, his speech hurried,  
  
“ _Hey.”_  
  
“Hey. What are you doing? You just drove right past me.”  
  
“ _I did?”_  
  
“I didn’t think you were working today.”  
  
“ _Last minute thing.”_  
  
……  
  
A silence followed; you listened to him breathe for a few seconds and then asked, “Want to meet me at the loft?”  
  
……  
  
He didn’t answer right away, but then, “ _You have time? It’s almost one.”_  
  
“I have time.”  
  
……  
  
You beat him there and poured yourself a drink in the kitchen while you waited. He arrived about five minutes later, dressed in his work clothes. You poured him a drink and watched him lay his wallet and keys on the table next to the bed. And then you were right beside him, handing him his glass, unbuttoning his shirt for him.  
  
“I’m going to fist you tonight,” you told him as he finished his drink, reaching behind him to sit the glass down. You kissed him when his face turned back to yours.  
  
“You are?”  
  
“I am.”  
  
His shirt wasn’t even completely unbuttoned when your hands changed directions and unfastened his pants. He never took his eyes off of yours once they were gone, a smile on his face as he lay back on the bed, waiting for you to join him. You lowered yourself, pushing his shirt up and out of the way as you kissed his chest, his stomach, lubing your hand and slipping it between his legs. His leg was propped on your shoulder as you fingered him, your lips brushing the inside of his thigh.  
  
……  
  
“I want you,” he moaned, urging your face toward his cock.  
  
“I know.”  
  
He was fucking your hand hard, “Inside me, Brian, _please._ ” The way your name came out so desperate and breathy…made you want to fuck him senseless.  
  
“You want me to fuck you?”  
  
“Brian, please… I’m gonna come.”  
  
“Not until I tell you to.”  
  
“Oh god…” And you were inside him.  
  
You fucked him as if you had something to prove, and he held on tightly, kissing you hard as both of you came. It wasn’t until you were in the shower washing his hair that you realized there was no white shit in it, not one single fleck. He left before you; you lingered for a guilty minute, checking his pillowcase. Nothing there either.  
  
……  
  
You hated his office, but he loved yours. He’d come there often when he got done at PIFA and hang out on your sofa waiting for you to finish working. He usually arrived around four thirty, and once you showed him how, would darken the doors immediately upon his arrival. (It was the only aspect of your techno-life that he didn’t seem to hate.) The Kinnetik staff hated your ‘after-nooner,’ until they realized that once Justin came in and the doors went dark, they could pretty much leave and you wouldn’t know the difference. The one time you approached Cynthia about the mass exodus, she made it perfectly clear that if you were going to fuck your afternoon away, she was leaving early, too.  
  
Most of the time Justin spent in your office was you doing your thing and him doing his thing. If your day wasn’t booked or he wasn’t preoccupied in something he was researching, the two of you would do ‘your’ thing, which usually meant that…  
  
He was sitting on your couch, pants off, legs spread, and you were kneeling between them. His hand was lodged in the book he was reading, an instant bookmark when you took him in your mouth.  
  
“Are you fucking _crazy_ , Brian? What are you doing?”  
  
You probably were, but you didn’t care. It was your office, your company, and _nobody_ walks into your office unannounced.  
  
“Sucking your cock is my god-given right. It’s my privilege,” you told him, pushing his resisting thighs back apart.  
  
“You’ve lost your mind.”  
  
“Shh.”  
  
Somehow, he’d rationalized in his blond, little head that someone walking in and seeing him sucking you off wasn’t a big deal, but the other way around was a completely different story. Not to you. Sucking cock is sucking cock. You weren’t ashamed of it—at all.  
  
The only problem you ran into is that he moans a little too loudly. So you sucked him off the next few times he came by in the afternoon so he could practice being quieter. Eventually, he had it down to barely a whisper.  
  
“I’m impressed; I barely heard you,” you told him.  
  
He was panting, “That…was…great.”  
  
“Get up on your knees and turn around.”  
  
His ass is always tighter when he’s trying not to moan.  
  
*******************  
_and as we seek,  
so shall we find_  
  
The second descent in your marriage felt less perilous than a roller coaster and more like being the only kid on a Ferris wheel, stuck at the very top of the rotation—the view was spectacular, the ability to be a part of it, less so.  
  
You’d taken your Mercedes in for a tune up. It wasn’t sick, you just felt like pampering it. The gentleman who sold it to you was still working there, and he handled your request personally, allowing you anything on the lot for a loaner. If Justin had gone in that day, he could’ve picked you up and taken you to work, but, again, it wasn’t his day to be in the city.  
  
But he was. If his plan was to be incognito, he was failing miserably. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in or around Liberty Ave. that didn’t recognize your Corvette, especially _you._  
  
There’s more sleuth in you than you’d care to admit, (probably why you were usually half of _Miami Vice_ for Halloween), and despite a voice inside your head telling you not to, you followed the ‘vette that day in your black 2011 Mercedes loaner. It was an eerily quiet ride, no voice prompting to fill the void. Justin drove to St. James Academy, parked in front of the school, only a few feet from where you dropped him off that first morning, got out and went in the front door. You killed your engine from your vantage point across the street and waited.  
  
The longer you sat there, the stupider you felt. You looked at your watch; it was just after ten a.m. At ten fifteen, you’d talked yourself into leaving and were about to start your car when your cell phone rang. It was him.  
  
“Justin?”  
  
“ _Hey._ ”  
  
“Hey.” Your heart was pounding so loudly, you feared he might hear it.  
  
……  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
……  
  
“ _Can you meet me at the loft for lunch today?”_  
  
You looked all around you to see if you could find him, but you couldn’t. “I thought you were going paint today.”  
  
“ _I have to run a couple of errands. I’ll be in the area…if you want, if you’re not busy.”_  
  
You started the car as you were answering him, and then cursed yourself for giving yourself away. He didn’t seem to notice. “Sure. Same bat time?”  
  
“ _Same bat channel.”_  
  
“Okay. You want the usual?” (Ostensibly, you meant the meal, not the fuck.)  
  
“ _Sure, whatever you want. I’ll see you then.”_  
  
You took that as proof that he hadn’t seen you _yet_ , started your car, and drove back to the office. You got nothing done between ten thirty and noon. The morning had been a total waste.  
  
*******************  
_but the restlessness was handed down_  
  
The only viable fuel for life is desire, and a shortage of it is always the main cause of engine trouble. Alternative fuels…obligation, fear, responsibility, seem to have promise, but they’ll always leave you stranded on the side of road. Desire’s the currency of the advertising business and when it lines your pockets, your pants hang perfectly.  
  
And you knew too well that there’s more to it than bedroom Olympics, but you conveniently forgot that when it was high noon and your bedroom at the loft was darker than usual—the sun reluctant to participate that day—and his hands felt warmer than usual when they were resting on your waist as you kissed him. It was the sensation of your shirt bunched in his fingers and sliding out of your pants that excited you, the urgency existing only in your mind. He was taking his time.  
  
Wanted to be taken?  
  
……  
  
You let him undress you because his mouth was following every scrap of fabric he took away, and when he finished, he looked up at you, his vulnerability always a steel trap, “How do you want me?”  
  
You laughed a little because there was no way you could narrow it down. “Up to you.”  
  
……  
  
The decision was tabled, unnecessary as your body lowered on top of his, his discarded clothing intermingled with yours on the far corner of the bed. The fuck was happening and yet the mechanics of it were furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you focused on maintaining the tenuous connection strung between the two of you—so focused that you were slow to notice that he was doing the same. That he was reaching for you.  
  
……  
  
You lost track of yourself in all of it, tuned into nothing but the restlessness in his body asking for some sort of reprieve, the expression on his face a buried memory. You offered consolation to a ghost, “It’s okay.” The words seemed hollow but necessary.  
  
His hands became heavy on your lower back, anchors slowing you down. Your body fought it, a reflex almost, until you realized that he wanted you to stop, his hands on your shoulder blades, pulling you down. You covered him, your eyes closing as your face rested on his pillow. The rush down that hill--the roar of the wind against your face--seemed to even out in the silence. The ride was over?  
  
……  
  
Pit stop.  
  
*******************  
_so what you feel becomes mine as well_  
  
Years ago, after knowing Ruben for about six months, you invited him to be the entertainment at Gus’s birthday party. He was a walking bag of tricks that Gus still talks about to this day. That night, after the two of you cleaned up the yard and the den and the basement (in retrospect, a really bad location for a piñata; candy’s still randomly appearing every few months), you convinced Rube to teach you once and for all how to walk on your hands. He was a master at it, able to cover the entire width of your yard while carrying on a conversation with you at the same time.  
  
The lessons came in stages—Rube insisting that you perfect your handstand first before becoming mobile on it. Gus had watched you from his bedroom window that night, bathed, birthday-ed, and too excited to sleep. Eventually, you were able to make it halfway across your yard, side by side with Ruben until you’d invariably tip over, and he would continue towards the finish line while Gus clapped from his window. He was a loyal son, never cheering for Rube until you were definitely out of the running.  
  
In your relationship with Justin over the years, you often felt like you were walking on your hands. With practice, you knew it was something you could do and do well, but the moments when it went smoothly were a balancing act and often had the life span of a mosquito.  
  
But one that you’d been bitten by, none the less.  
  
……  
  
You’d never finish the midday fuck at the loft that day; he wanted something else from you.  
  
Quiet contact.  
  
*******************  
_someone to watch over me  
  
6:11 p.m. that same evening…_  
  
The third descent in your marriage would feel like the last one for a while, and it happened when you got home from work that night to find the house dark, save the lights over the front porch and the kitchen sink. You called Justin’s cell, and he answered, telling you that he’d gone for a walk, that he was down at the other end of the street almost at the stop sign. You changed into track pants and a sweatshirt and jogged down the black, winding road until you found him. He heard you coming and asked,  
  
“Why are you running?”  
  
“I don’t want you out here by yourself at night.”  
  
He laughed a little at that, “I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
He’d changed his clothes since he’d gotten home, and he looked like the Justin you were used to—jeans that were a little too long, the sleeves of his red, hooded sweatshirt covering half of his hands. He pulled his sleeve up a little when you held his hand, the two of you turning around and walking back toward the house.  
  
“One of these days they’ll put more streetlights out here like they’ve been promising,” you told him.  
  
“Or you could just run for governor of West Virginia and do it yourself,” he teased you.  
  
“Nah. Don’t think so.”  
  
“You know, when I was in New York, Zeek would do the same thing that you do.”  
  
“I thought that was none of my business.”  
  
He socked you in the stomach, laughing, “No, stupid. Not fucking. Walking me home and shit.”  
  
“He walked you home?”  
  
“Well, my friend and I would get completely trashed, and Zeek always made sure we got home safe or back to our studio, wherever we were going. We never had to worry about anything when he was around.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
“You are?”  
  
“Of course. There was someone looking out for you.”  
  
He squeezed your hand, and you stopped walking and kissed him as a car drove by, lighting his face. “I made you a salad,” he told you, “It’s in the fridge.”  
  
“You already ate?” you asked him.  
  
“No. Apparently my muse is on a hunger strike.”  
  
……  
  
_So he was serious when he said his batteries were dying._  
  
*******************  
_reach out_  
  
There’s a nightlight in your master bathroom that’s been there for years now, ever since Gus insisted on gender segregation of the facilities. It was his only opportunity to shun the women in his life, and you obliged him, respecting his need to control his own destiny. That night about eight thirty p.m., the tiny, fluorescent light was the only one on when you walked into your bathroom. You heard water running; Justin was in the shower.  
  
“Showering in the dark? This is a new thing,” you told him as you opened the glass door. He moved backward into the spray to let you in.  
  
“Helps me focus.”  
  
You let the hot water soak into your skin, and then stepped forward, standing in front of him as he leaned against the far wall. You looked into his eyes and decided to come clean, “I need to tell you something.”  
  
“You’re hard and you want to fuck me.”  
  
“I didn’t think I really needed to tell you that.”  
  
“Then what?” he asked, laughing and pulling you toward him. “Kiss me first.”  
  
“Okay, excuse me, but I thought you were in here trying to focus.”  
  
“Focus time is over.”  
  
You kissed him; you had no choice. Resistance was futile. You’d never kissed him in the dark in the shower before, and it was nice and lasted until he complained that you were hogging the water, that he was starting to get cold.  
  
“You started it,” you pointed out.  
  
“What did you want to tell me?” he asked, turning off the water.  
  
“Fuck if I remember.”  
  
*******************  
_now that she’s back in the atmosphere_  
  
He got dressed and wandered down the hall to his studio, and you followed, joining him in the room while he was toying with the lighting. “Are you going to paint or hold a séance?” you asked him as he dimmed the track.  
  
“Maybe a little of both.”  
  
And then you remembered, “There really is something I want to tell you.”  
  
He sat on the stool in front of his art table, which put the table between you, and fiddled with a skinny paintbrush, “What? Whatever it is, it’s making you nervous.” He was right.  
  
“I’ll be right back.” You returned less than five minutes later with your arms full; the three objects under wrap. He asked what you were doing while you leaned each painting against the far wall of his studio. “I bought these,” you told him, motioning to the still-covered canvases. “They’re yours. They’re all untitled.”  
  
He got up, walked over to the wall and pulled the coverings off each of them, one by one. You felt yourself bracing for a fight.

 

 

  
[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

 

 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
“So all these years I thought that people were dying to buy my work, and then I come home and find out that you own about a third of it.” His voice didn’t sound angry at all, which made you even more ill at ease for some reason. You were ready to tackle him if made a move to paint over them.  
  
“I really like them. That first one, especially. I want to hang it in my office at work…if it’s okay with you.”  
  
“How much did you pay for it?” he asked.  
  
You couldn’t remember, so you looked at the back of the painting to find where you’d written it down, “One thousand eighty five.”  
  
“Then I guess you can hang it wherever you want.”  
  
……  
  
He was handling it better than you thought, so you pressed on, “Gus wants the middle one.”  
  
“He does?”  
  
“He thinks it looks like a really angry fish with, and I quote, ‘Cool, spikey weapons.’”  
  
“I guess it kind of does. It’s actually the negative of another painting I did.” He leaned against his art table, surveying his work. “He wants it in his room here or in Toronto?”  
  
“Here.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
……  
  
Two down. One to go.  
  
……  
  
You took a deep breath that you hoped he didn’t notice before you addressed the last one, the one he was now sitting cross-legged in front of on the floor. “I was thinking about hanging that one—"  
  
“This piece has always bothered me for some reason.”  
  
“It’s disturbing on some level,” you agreed. You propped your elbows behind you on his futon, your legs stretched out in front of you on the floor.  
  
“Does it bother you?” he asked, turning to face you.  
  
“Bother me? No. It makes me think.”  
  
……  
  
“I don’t think I like it.”  
  
……  
  
“We can put it away if you want,” you offered.  
  
“I want to think about it for a while.”  
  
……  
  
The flood lights shining on the backyard went off darkening his studio. They were on a timer; it was nine thirty. He stood as if he was going to brighten the lights, but you stopped him, gesturing for him to join you on the futon. He did, and your arm stretched along the back of it, your fingers playing with his hair. He seemed tired all of a sudden, closing his eyes as he let his face rest in your hand. “You’ve had a long day,” you told him.  
  
“A long day in which I got nothing accomplished.”  
  
“I can relate. I’m not exactly burning the midnight oil in my endeavors lately either.”  
  
“Because of me?” he asked, as if the answer was a foregone conclusion.  
  
“No, not because of you. Because I’d rather be with you than think up some brilliant idea for the brand-spanking-new-product-come-lately.”

 

 

“But you love your job.”

You smiled, “True, but it pales in comparison.”

*******************  
_don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are_

Tired, Justin rose from the futon and you followed him, allowing him to tug you down the hall to your bedroom, the lights finally extinguished in his studio. He undressed and slipped under the covers, watching you as you followed suit, pulling the sheets back for you when you were ready to join him. You were propped on your side on your elbow as he lay on his stomach, his face toward you resting on his crossed arms. The small bit of light from the bathroom was the only thing illuminating your bedroom. Your hand was smoothing down his back when he spoke, “You said you were going to fist me a couple of weeks ago, but you never did.”

“You’re too tense.”

……

“But I can fix that,” you added, lighting the thin, glass pipe on your nightstand. You handed it to him, and he didn’t hesitate to partake. He inhaled and let his head rest on his arms again, watching you as you took a hit. It was all you were going to do; you weren’t going to be anything but sober if your hand was going to disappear in his ass again.

……

“Have I really been that stressed out lately?” he asked you.

“Like a cat that saw itself in the mirror.”

“That’s pretty bad.” He turned his head the other direction, so you moved closer to him, wrapping your arm around him.

……

“Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“Are you afraid you’ve been abducted by aliens who’ve never heard of fisting?”

“I thought I was the one who was stoned.”

“Whoops.”

……

“You’re seriously fucked in the head, Brian.”

“Well, you married me.”

“God help me.”

……

He slapped at your hands when you started to tickle him, but you were relentless, and then he couldn’t stop laughing even after you’d set him free. He was still laughing when he blurted out, “I can’t paint, okay? I can’t fucking paint,” his hands airborne for emphasis.

You grabbed his right hand and pressed it to your face for closer inspection, “Did your hand stop working again?”

He pushed your face away and took it back, “I have no idea why I ever try to talk to you at all.”

“Presumably because I’m the only other person here.”

“I’m serious, Brian. My muse is dead.”

He turned away from you again, not laughing anymore, not even when you offered to give it mouth-to-cock. But he didn’t fight you when pulled him back into your arms. “Has it been this way since you came back?” you asked.

“Pretty much.” His body was stiffening; you could feel it preparing for the drop.

……

“I’m sorry, Brian; I don’t know what to do.”

*******************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**

_’cause I am barely breathing,  
and I can’t find the air_

You felt uncomfortable, like you were suffocating in your own skin, like relief would only come once you peeled every bit of it off and threw it on the floor. You’d been afraid to tell him, afraid to admit it to yourself. Your fear of hurting him had kept it at arm’s length for as long as possible. It was the first time you’d ever wanted to cry while you were stoned.

“It’s happened to me before, Justin.” His lighter clicked and flashed in the darkness, the sweet smell of weed reintroducing itself.

“It has?” You didn’t believe him.

“Sure. I’ve been sitting in high-powered meetings with high-powered clients, and they’re all staring at me, waiting for the next great idea to just come flying out of my mouth—"

“It usually does.”

You were mesmerized watching him blow smoke out of his nose, and then he turned his head and looked at you, “Not all the time. Trust me.”

“What do you do?”

He laughed, “Well, if someone else with any genius is in the room, I say something like, ‘I’d like to hear what so-and-so has to say before I weigh in.’” He grinned at you like it was the most amazing thing he’d ever said.

“Well, the only problem with that is that I’m the only one in my studio.”

“In New York, too?”

“No, in New York I ended up sharing a studio with a friend of mine, Harper.”

“To save money?”

You confessed, “Not exactly. We didn’t have to pay for the space.”

“The man in the window?”

“Huh?”

“When Chris died, and I came to get you at that quaint little Brownstone, there was a man in the window watching us.”

“That was Daniel, I guess. It was his place.”

“He was rich?”

“A doctor.”

“A doctor you fucked to get free studio space?”

You moved over a little, away from him, “No, Brian. I did not fuck him for studio space.”

“Because you felt sorry for him then?”

“Why do you just assume that I was fucking him?” you said, unable to hide the annoyance in your voice.

“I assume that he was fucking you; his stance in the window…he wasn’t a casual observer. There was something at stake for him.”

“He fell in love with me. And yes, we fucked, but that happened way before the crush.”

“He sucked in the sack so you gave it up?”

“What is this—twenty fucking questions?”

“Well, did he?”

“Yes. It was the most boring sex I’ve ever had. Are you happy now?”

“I’m happy when you’re happy.” And then he moved so that he was on top of you, and you rolled your eyes at what you thought was a territorial gesture, but he just wanted your attention, “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Maybe you need to find some sort of communal work space; it would drive me fucking nuts to be alone in this house all day.”

“I’ve thought about that, but—"

“But I gave you this incredible studio and you feel guilty if you don’t use it.” (He didn’t have to finish your thoughts for you, even if he was right.)

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t. Work wherever you want and you can have your studio here to do whatever you want. Make yourself happy.”

You wrapped your hands underneath and around his biceps and sighed, “Maybe I don’t know how.”

*******************  
**BRIAN’S POV**

_and that heaven is overrated_

You pressed him further, and he let everything out—how everything was too perfect in your world, plenty of money, plenty of sex, more than enough of anything he could possibly want. It left him wanting nothing.

The urge inside him to create—he felt as if he left it in the city, not on purpose, but…

“It’s kind of like this, Brian: When you wake up in the morning and your feet hit the pavement and your brain’s all foggy while you walk to work, there are so many other things going on. I mean, by the time you get there, your mind is brimming with things that you want to either fix or explain or justify: the eighty-year-old man who drinks his coffee behind a garbage can because that’s the only place he feels safe, the woman who steps off the curb prematurely, breaks her heel, and ends up crying—not because her ankle is sprained, but because her briefcase popped open when she fell and her divorce papers are flung all over the intersection, guys who go to work every day wearing hard hats and steel-toed boots but read Emily Dickinson on their lunch hour—to each other.”

“Conflict,” you offered in summary.

“More like dissonance.” You hadn’t seen him so animated, so excited since he’d come back as he was while he spoke about the city. “And that’s what art is, I think. It’s the way you make sense of everything that won’t make sense.”

“And everything here makes too much sense?” you asked.

He rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand, “Sort of. Kind of.”

You couldn’t fault him for it because you knew exactly what he meant—his desire had vanished when it realized that it was being taken for granted. The happier you tried to make him, the more miserable he was. And again you struggled with the delicate balance—hand in front of hand--concentrating so you wouldn’t topple over and crush him.

It wasn’t as if you were supposed to know how to do this; you’d had few stellar examples of functioning relationships in your life, and, ironically, neither had he. You were both trapped--trying to troubleshoot the very thing that gave you strength. However, it bears repeating: you’re Brian Kinney and you love a challenge.

So, you took him at his word and set about recharging him.

“The trick, I think,” you told him, “Is to see more than just what's right in front of you, more than what you have to pass every day.” _There’s dissonance inside you if you’re not afraid to look._

“You mean, I’m not paying attention to what I should be?”

“I mean that the external dissonance you see arose from something internal. It’s not just what appears on the surface. The guys that read Emily Dickinson on their lunch hour, are their hands clean?” His palm slid along the mattress to your chest, an idle gesture, but it felt good.

“No, they’re not. They’re black and grimy…and they share food. They pass sandwiches to each other. It’s actually pretty disgusting.”

“So what they enjoy doesn’t mesh with who they are?”

He seemed almost relieved, “No, it doesn’t. Not at all.”

“Your muse isn’t dead, Sunshine,” you told him right before you kissed him. “It just has a little jet lag.”

 

 

Lyrics taken from Five for Fighting’s _Superman_ , Crosby, Stills, and Nash _Suite Judy Blue Eyes_ , Blues Traveler’s _Run Around_ , Billy Joel’s _Allentown_ , Blues Traveler’s _Run Around_ again, George  & Ira Gershwin’s _Someone to Watch Over Me_ , the Four Tops’s _Reach Out_ , Train’s _Drops of Jupiter_ , Alanis Morissette’s _Head Over Feet_ , Duncan Sheik’s _Barely Breathing_ , and Train’s _Drops of Jupiter_ again.


	29. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 26-Prognosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 6/11/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 26-PROGNOSIS  
  
BRIAN’S POV**  
_a little too ironic_  
  
So often in life our fear of something dictates our every move--losing what we (think we) love or actually getting what we think we want. The lengths people will go to avoid what they fear are as elaborate as they are ironic, so often leading them smack in front of it again, completing the circle. You’d tried to circumvent this inevitability in your life, to predict where each road would take you and determine how to avoid it completely, but time is nothing if not a teacher. And now you know that life actually is that circle, and, therefore, everyone in the world will always be perpetually dizzy—and forever searching for something or someone to help them keep their balance.  
  
Your revealing conversation with Justin had taken place on a Tuesday night. The door to his studio had remained closed the rest of the week, and you hadn’t badgered him about it or even really mentioned it, relieved that this struggle with his muse hadn’t ended with him joining a fashion-challenged street gang. He’d gone into town both Wednesday and Thursday that week, but the rendezvous at the loft hadn’t happened. He seemed preoccupied, lost in his own head. So by Friday at three p.m., after snapping at Cynthia about a deadline that she still had ample time to meet, she informed you that you were back to being an ass again which clearly meant that you were being denied one. Her ability to litmus-test your sex life was becoming almost as bad as not having one for three days. It wasn’t that Justin wasn’t horny, evidenced by the fact that the top rack of your dishwasher was filled with his dildos, or that he’d turned you down; he’d just fallen asleep during more than one of your patented advances. The night before you’d jacked off while he slept—and drooled—on your chest.  
  
_Memories._  
  
You can always tell when Justin has fallen out of favor with his muse because he either draws with a vengeance or forgets that he even knows how. It’s always been different for you; when your muse refuses to show up for work, you throw a tantrum, hurling liquor, drugs, and illicit sex at it until it begs for mercy. In the early hours of the morning, when you refuse to admit that you’re actually awake, you’ll acknowledge the ‘all or nothing’ similarity that exists between the two of you, but after that, you’re back to staring at him (when he’s not looking) as if he’s a carnival anomaly. And earlier that week, while you and Justin lay in bed (him reading and you pretending to), you proved to yourself that you were exceedingly bad at it. He confronted you about it without taking his eyes off the page he was reading,  
  
“Brian, why are you staring at me?”  
  
_Shit._  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
……  
  
You tried to think of something, “Well, there’s a giant bug in your hair.”  
  
Momentary flailing ensued. “What? Are you kidding? Where? Get it off of me!”  
  
“Okay, okay. Hold still.” You smacked him on the head.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“It was a native West Virginian bed bug.” (Repelled only by incessant fucking.)  
  
…….  
  
“There was no bug in my hair, was there?” You pretended you didn’t hear him. “Answer me, Brian.”  
  
“Just bringing the dissonance.”  
  
“Freak.”  
  
……  
  
In your private bathroom at Kinnetik, the walls were adorned with various ad campaigns that had never really taken off. It was where you figured out what went wrong, why you couldn’t complete the sale. And it was there, sitting on your throne, that you realized what you had to do…  
  
*******************  
_and baby, you're so smart,  
you know, you could've been a schoolbook_  
  
_"Good afternoon, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, March 18, 2011. The time is three sixteen p.m. The current temperature is sixty-seven degrees under mostly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now."_  
  
“HOME.”  
  
_"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip."_  
  
Plan A: to call Justin and invite him out for a night on the town--dinner, maybe dancing—was tabled as soon as you got in the car…  
  
_"Incoming call…number restricted.”_  
  
You hoped that it was Gavin ‘Won’t Return A Call’ Newsome, _finally_ calling you back. “ANSWER…Brian Kinney.”  
  
_“Brian? It’s Ben.”_ No such luck.  
  
“Afternoon, Professor.”  
  
“ _Have you talked to Justin since lunch?”_  
  
“No, in fact, I was just about to call him.”  
  
_"Well, he’s either not home or not answering the phone. I’ve been trying to call him for over an hour.”_  
  
You offered up a little, white lie, “He might be in his studio working.”  
  
“ _Maybe. But I think he’s ignoring me.”_  
  
“Why?”  
  
Ben sighed, “ _It was just a misunderstanding. Justin came by the store. Michael wasn’t expecting him, hadn’t even seen him since he got back—"_  
  
“He’s been busy.” You didn’t know why you were making excuses for him.  
  
_"Apparently, from what I pieced together from Michael, Justin had two cases of condoms in the front seat. Michael saw them through the car window, asked Justin what he was doing—"_  
  
“Let me guess. He offered to give them to him.”  
  
“ _Yeah. But at the same time, Michael saw the ring on his finger, said something to him about not being invited to the wedding he didn’t even know about—"_  
  
“Nobody knew about it. I was fucking him at the time…without an audience.” (People have spent so many years trying to understand your penchant for group sex, and then when you stop having it, everyone has a conniption.)  
  
“ _Brian, it was stupid. Justin explained that you two didn’t need the condoms anymore, and I think Michael just extrapolated a little. He feels awful. He’s tried to call Justin to apologize, but he won’t answer. Then I tried, just to smooth things out, but—"_  
  
“Michael’s upset?”  
  
He hesitated before he continued, _”It’s just that we’ll never have that, Brian. Ever. I think the reality just hit him a little hard.”_  
  
“Christ.”  
  
“ _I think they were both embarrassed. They didn’t part of very good terms.”_  
  
“He would never hurt Michael.”  
  
“ _I know. Michael knows. Please tell Justin that everything’s fine. If you want, you guys can come to dinner next week.”_  
  
“I’ll talk to him.”  
  
“ _And congratulations, Brian. We’re both really happy for you.”_  
  
“Do I need to call Michael?”  
  
“ _Not now. Give him a while.”_  
  
“Thanks for letting me know.”  
  
He laughed, “ _Sometime’s a husband’s gotta do what a husband’s gotta do, you know?”_  
  
“Believe me, I know.”  
  
When you pulled into the garage, you got out, relieved that the ‘vette was there, momentarily back in the station, folded Plan B and stuffed it into your briefcase.  
  
*******************  
_I second that emotion_  
  
Justin was lying on the sofa in the home theater room watching a movie with the sound off-- _Philadelphia_ , the remote control propped on his stomach. Your presence surprised him. As he sat up, the remote slid off of his stomach and landed on the hardwood floor.  
  
“Shit.” He recovered it and continued, “Didn’t know you were on your way home.”  
  
“Yeah, the day just felt over,” you told him.  
  
“I know that feeling.”  
  
……  
  
He turned off the television when you sat down beside him, your briefcase leaning against the sofa. “Michael knows he overreacted, okay?”  
  
Justin’s head fell into his hands, “What’d he do? Call you up and tell you what I did?”  
  
“No, Ben did. You wouldn’t answer the phone.”  
  
“Oh, that’s just great.”  
  
You put your arm around him, “It’s okay. He knows you didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just sensitive.”  
  
“He was the one who asked me about the condoms. I didn’t offer them to him.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I was going to give them to Zeek, but I never even made it that far. I’m not some asshole.”  
  
“Nobody thinks you are.”  
  
He stood up, pushing on your thigh for leverage, “God, I have such a fucking headache.” You watched him walk out of the room and up the stairs. Your frustration of the past few days began to evaporate as you watched him go, no longer obsessing over what you weren’t getting but, instead, appreciating what you had.  
  
……  
  
When you joined him upstairs a few minutes later, you found him lying face down on your bed, his sneakers flung to opposite sides of the room. “I’m sorry, Brian.”  
  
“For what?” you asked, sitting on the edge of bed.  
  
“For hurting him. He’s your best friend.”  
  
You smiled, putting your hand on the back of his head, “No, you’re my best friend.”  
  
He held your hand, sliding it out of his hair, “Really?”  
  
“Yes, really.”  
  
*******************  
_he was impressive  
young and agressive_  
  
There’s a phenomenon on every roller coaster that every rider covets—air time--the moment of zero gravity. Some travel the world trying to find the ride that can sustain that heady suspension the longest, prolonging the instant euphoria. And then there are some who’s every contact with the sensation makes them blow chunks…  
  
Justin bunched a pillow underneath his head, the expression on his face beginning to deflate as he told you, “I don’t feel like I fit in here anymore.” The look on his face told you that, as far as he was concerned, that was his reality, but, still, you tried to convince him otherwise,  
  
“Things are a little different, but that doesn’t mean—"  
  
“A little different? They’re a lot different. Everybody you know works for you. Hell, everybody _I_ know works for you. You own everything. I can’t even have a conversation with my mother without every other word being, ‘Brian this,’ or ‘Brian that.’”  
  
“It’s just an adjustment, Justin. Everything will smooth out.”  
  
“I mean, Christ. I went to go see Michael. I was excited to see him again, Brian. We’re friends, or I thought we were. And then all of a sudden and totally by accident, it became all about you. Or rather, what you were doing with me.” His head sunk back into his pillow.  
  
“Justin, I really don’t think that’s what his reaction was about.”  
  
“Well, with all due respect, you weren’t there.”  
  
“He just wants something he can never have.”  
  
“Yeah, _you._ ”  
  
He rolled his eyes when you disagreed, reason so distant at that moment that you changed the subject, “Your head hurts?”  
  
“Yeah, like hell.” Time for Plan B.  
  
“I’ll be right back.” You looked back over your shoulder once you were in the doorway and added, “Leave the lights on and get undressed.” The best way to deal with Justin’s stubbornness had always been to distract him and hope that when he caught on and tried to return to it, it had tired of waiting and fled the scene.  
  
*******************  
_everybody plays the fool_  
  
In the olden days of backrooms and bathrooms, a fuck was like a handshake to you—a handshake with a spark. It always originated with you, and you shared it with someone else when it was in your best interest. The brief connection was powerful, but always the same every single time. It took the universe quite a while to convince you that there was more pleasure in denying someone what he was expecting, and then making him wait to get what he wanted . So, over time, you learned to tease the spark out of Justin, and once you captured it, to keep it viable for as long as possible. When done right, it was significant ‘air time’ for both of you.  
  
You could hear him rustling in the bedroom as you descended the stairs to find your briefcase and get ready. He took one look at you when you returned and flew under the covers, a curious, but somewhat frightened, look on his face,  
  
“Oh my god. What the--?”  
  
“You were unaware that Dr. Kinney makes house calls?” you asked.  
  
“I don’t remember making an appointment,” he said, yanking the covers all the way up to the top of his neck.  
  
“You were under hypnosis at the time.”  
  
……  
  
He tried not to laugh, “So if you count to three, I’ll cluck like a chicken?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
It was the height of irony that the props from the failed Erectile Dysfunction ad you pitched to Remson were now the very things that were going to resurrect your fledgling sex life. You were proud of yourself for having finally found a use for the white lab coat and stethoscope, and, amazingly, for finding your glasses all by yourself. Justin seemed less proud, and more, well, concerned. There was nothing on under your lab coat, and you fiddled in the right hand pocket for a tongue depressor. His eyes froze on your face when you sat down beside him and told him, “I’m afraid, Mr. Taylor, that you need a complete physical examination.”  
  
“I’m afraid, too.”  
  
His nervous laugh only spurred you on as you forced yourself not to smile. “You seem a little on edge.”  
  
“I am, especially now.”  
  
“Sit up.” He hesitated, scanning your face as if he was trying to be sure it was really you, and then finally sat up, still clutching the covers around him. You disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a small cup of water and a blue pill in your hand, both of which you handed to him. “Bottoms up.”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“Valium. Enjoy.”  
  
He swallowed it, drinking all the water. “You have a very nice bedside manner, Dr. Kinney.”  
  
You took the glass from him and sat it down, “I’ll bet you say that to all the doctors.”  
  
He lay back down, his hands resting above the covers, his fingers toying with the sleeve of your coat, “Just the rich ones that let me walk all over them.”  
  
*******************  
_I told the witch doctor I was in love with you_  
  
While you waited for the moment when you knew the pill was having an affect, the two of you decided that _you_ should give Zeek the two cases of condoms. It would be an odd olive branch, but somehow it seemed fitting, considering he was apparently the glue holding your (emotionally fragile) management team together. You told Justin about your day, he told you about his, and then his eyes closed for a second longer than a blink, and when he opened them again, he was sort of smiling. It’d happened quicker than you expected.  
  
“You don’t have any food on your stomach, do you?” you asked.  
  
“Nope. I wasn’t hungry after all that crap with Michael.”  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
“Ridiculously content.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
……  
  
“Come here, Dr. Kinney. Kiss me with your glasses on.” You obliged him, letting your hand slip under the sheets, planting the stethoscope on his chest. His body jerked underneath you immediately, “That’s fucking cold.”  
  
“Just wait ‘til it’s between your legs.”  
  
“I don’t recall signing a consent form for that.”  
  
_Sometimes he’s so fucking adorable._ “You waived that a long time ago, Sunshine.”  
  
“Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.”  
  
He was ready to object to the treatment until he felt your hand moving in advance of the metal. You smiled when you felt his erection forming in your palm. “I like that, Dr. Kinney,” he told you, his hand pressing on yours from over the sheets.  
  
“I know what you like, Mr. Taylor. I’ve read your chart cover to cover.” You tugged on the sheet still covering his chest, “May I have that, please?” He obeyed reluctantly. “Now, put your arms up over your head, and keep them there.” You helped him a little, pushing them out of the way. And then you cuffed them to the wrought iron headboard just because he asked so nicely. “You have such nice manners when you’re looped.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
*******************  
_the doctor knew just what to do_  
  
You’d raised the heat in the upstairs by a few degrees as you were preparing for your patient, and it paid off because he didn’t seem to shiver when you pulled the sheet down to his ankles, smiling at your approval of his restrained, aroused body. It was one of the most delicious paradoxes in bedroom science: the sooner you tie him up, the sooner he’ll want to let go. You began your examination with his face, kissing his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, and then the warm and waiting areas behind his ear and down his neck. He bent his knees and you were lying between them when he asked, “Please take off your coat. I want to feel your skin.” You unbuttoned it, and he moaned when your chest touched his. You slipped the stethoscope between you, letting it rest on a nipple, and he began to writhe under your weight.  
  
“Shh, Justin,” and he did once he realized that your mouth was following the instrument, sucking and warming the affected skin. He began to pull against his restraints, a sign that the scope on his cock was a maddening sensation, one that he wanted you to make go away. His legs were open, but you made him spread further as the instrument grazed his balls and pressed underneath them, a wet finger already sliding into his bottom.  
  
He couldn’t touch himself, and it drove him crazy. With your stethoscope pressed against his inner thigh, you told him to be quiet, watching how wet he was getting as you touched him. “I think I hear something,” you told him, as he’d given up trying to use his hips to guide your hands.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your muse.”  
  
“Oh god, you’ve lost your mind.” But he was lying. You could tell from the look his face and the desperation in his voice—it was his mind that was long gone.  
  
“You can’t hear it? It’s saying, _’Fuck me, fuck me, oh god in heaven, please fuck me.’_ ”  
  
His head popped up off the mattress, “That’s _me_ , you quack.”  
  
It was a logical mistake. You hadn’t heard that in so many days, you barely recognized it anymore.  
  
*******************  
_he cured the infection with one small injection_  
  
Any lover worth his salt is a scientist and an artist at heart, concerning himself with the precise moment that expectations and pleasure try to connect. To hold them at bay without discouraging them is pure science (some still call it ‘advertising’), an experiment easily duplicated with practice, but to exploit the eventual impact takes nothing short of artistic talent—the replication of the exact opposite of buyer’s remorse-- _pleasing the client.._  
  
You tossed your glasses and lifted his thighs, letting them rest on your shoulders, and then took your time, holding his hips at bay as he begged you to suck him off. You refused, pushing his thighs back, letting him feel your mouth trailing down the back of his them, and then taking your much anticipated place inside of him for a nice, slow fuck. He was pinned underneath you, and the more he tried to resist you, the harder you held him down, your mouth right beside his ear so you could hear everything coming out of him.  
  
Combative abandon.  
  
He was begging for relief, having resigned himself to the fact that you were going to come first, when the warmth spilled inside him. “God, that feels so fucking good,” he breathed in your ear as he came. You kissed him, smearing the proof all over his chest. “Please let me go. Let me touch you.” You freed him, closing your eyes when his hands combed through your hair, pulling you down so he could kiss you, the urgency behind it rushing between your legs. “Take this fucking coat off,” he demanded, pulling it off your shoulders, and then yanking the stethoscope from around your neck and throwing it across the room. Your little diamond…that likes it rough.  
  
“Take it easy, Sunshine.”  
  
It was a perfunctory response; you wanted nothing of the sort. It seemed like an eternity since he’d wanted you so badly. His desire for you has always been your downfall. Sometimes you were less than adept at realizing it was the same for him.  
  
*******************  
_what is love?_  
  
When you first met Justin, you were convinced that love was an illusion, mastered only by those who could be duplicitous, who could harbor the urge to care and to hurt simultaneously. You were convinced that there was only one definition of love.  
  
Yours.  
  
But then the realization that you wanted things for him, things that you’d denied yourself, opened a window inside you that you could’ve sworn was painted shut. To want to open it was terrifying; to see yourself opening it was paralyzing. And now that he was back, fucking him had become less of a handshake and more about the handling, about balancing on a rickety ladder while you pried open the rusty window screen. It was the first time you’d even seen yourself on the other side of that window, brave enough to be looking in, amazed that you’d steadied yourself.  
  
He didn’t seem amazed, though. And although he’d doubted the sincerity of some of your more blatant overtures in the past, that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You were relieved though somewhat dubious. It wasn’t easy to feel someone love you; your instinct was to question it. Your fear of it had worn the same mask for eleven years— _eventually, he’ll leave._ But when the mask finally dried up and crumbled, the real fear stood tall and staring at your uncovered eyes— _he’ll stay and see me for who I really am._  
  
And who were you? The question had only episodic answers.  
  
And in that night’s episode you were his lover.  
  
*******************  
_like a game show contestant with a parting gift,  
I could not believe my eyes_  
  
Preparing to fist him that night felt different than the first time at The Rockford. His body felt more relaxed as you touched him. You kneeled in front of him just like before letting his legs drape over your knees. There was resistance just like the first time, but it was a different sort. You remember feeling him working with you to control the pace as you worked your way inside him, the smile on his face that seemed spontaneous as if it wasn’t the work of his mouth.  
  
His self-gratification claimed you both, seeming to use the two of you for its single-minded purpose. You felt almost frozen as you watched his body stretch into the pleasure, one hand reaching over his head to wrap around the headboard while he stroked himself with the other. As for the latter, you were doing the same when you could.  
  
The muscles in his fingers, his arms and legs, seemed to stare at you, defining themselves in protest, as you closed your hand inside him. It was as if they’d taken over trying to control the tsunami that was about to crash over him. But you hadn’t. You’d placed your hand on his inner thigh, stilling him when you knew he was going to come, and he grabbed it and held on like it was his only lifeline. The pressure on your hand, the heat, when he came, was the only thing making you think he hadn’t left the atmosphere on a temporary ecstasy visa. You saw yourself come between his legs, but it almost surprised you, feeling more like a reflex than anything else. As reflexes go, it was definitely one of the more noteworthy ones.  
  
And as much as his body had invited you in, it seemed to be throwing you out in the next few minutes, and Justin’s eyes fixed on your face, “Brian.”  
  
“Just relax.”  
  
……  
  
The aftermath was what you expected, although he was less patient as you cleaned up. You chalked that up to his anticipation of the pain he knew was coming and worked as fast as you could to make him comfortable, offering him more Valium, and turning off the lights. Your chest was pressed against his back as you asked, “You’re okay?”  
  
He swallowed, “Yeah.”  
  
You propped your arm along his thigh, “Want me to turn the television on?”  
  
He shook his head, “No.”  
  
……  
  
“Do you need anything?” you asked, covering him up. He was shivering.  
  
“I’m not cold; I’m just shaking.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I just need to lay here for a minute.”  
  
“Head still hurt?”  
  
“Not a bit.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Your eyes were closed as you lay beside him when your stomach growled, echoing in the silence.  
  
“You’re hungry, Dr. Kinney.”  
  
“I guess so.”  
  
“Go get something to eat.”  
  
“In a while. I’m fine.”  
  
……  
  
His hand was pressed against his stomach, and you held it, kissing the back of his neck, his shoulder, “I love you.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Eventually, his body unfolded as the pain went away, and he rolled over in your arms, reaching for your face.  
  
“Better now?” you wanted to know.  
  
“Yeah.” His voice sounded tired, medicated. “I think I’m falling asleep.”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“But I have to tell you something.”  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
His head had dropped against you as if it’d just gotten too heavy, “The painting that I said I didn’t like.”  
  
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about that.” You brushed his hair out of his face.  
  
“I’m not. I know what it means.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
He yawned, “Yep.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Justin?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“What does it mean?”  
  
……  
  
“What does what mean?”  
  
“The painting, Sunshine. You said you know—"  
  
“Oh, yeah. It means it’s not about the words.”  
  
……  
  
When he woke up an hour and a half later, it was hanging over the bed.  
  
*******************  
_wild thing,  
you make my heart sing_  
  
The weekend passed without one comment about it from either of you, and by Sunday morning, Justin’s energy level had spiked to that of a beaver on speed. You were a little concerned, but he was fascinating to watch at the grocery store and every other store he dragged you to on Sunday because he just had to get ‘one more thing.’ He didn’t complain once while in the Mercedes or disparage the kitchen in any way while the two of you were (at his insistence) reorganizing the pantry.  
  
You took him out for dinner Sunday night and tried to get him drunk, but his tolerance to alcohol seemed to have spiked as well. You had no other choice but to pound him into the sofa, the futon, and the mattress when you got home, and when he implied that he wouldn’t mind going again, you picked up the phone and pretended to dial 9-1-1. Clearly, your life was in jeopardy.  
  
It was more like your ass.  
  
He fucked you with a misguided enthusiasm that reminded you of Frankenstein trying to cuddle with a hamster.  
  
When he finished, he collapsed on the bed beside you, slapped you on the butt, and said, “Give me a cigarette.”  
  
You were afraid to disobey him, so you lit one for him. “I thought you were quitting,” you told him as you gave it to him.  
  
“Yeah, right. What a crock of shit.”  
  
You slept on your back that night with one eye open, terrified that he’d wake up at midnight and want a rematch.  
  
*******************  
_I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you_  
  
He was still chipper for the Monday morning fuck, and then joined you in the shower for an instant replay. You were actually relieved to get in the car and go to work. While you drove, you wondered if the pharmacist who’d filled his allergy meds had accidentally switched them with Viagra. Monday night was more of the same, so you got stoned so you could suffer through it. On Tuesday morning, you woke up, went to piss, and when you came back to bed to perform your carnal ritual, he was on his knees waiting. When you were ready to leave for work, he met you in the doorway like he did every morning to kiss you good-bye, but this time, there was a suitcase in his hand. Your suitcase.  
  
“Here,” he told you as he handed it to you. “Don’t come home tonight.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me. Don’t come home tonight. Sleep at the loft. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”  
  
_What the fuck?_  
  
“You’re kicking me out of my own house?”  
  
“Yes, I am. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He smiled and bounced on his toes, “Can’t tell you. Go hang out with Michael or something. See your friends.”  
  
“I don’t want to see my friends.” (You sounded like Gus when you forced him to take a bath.)  
  
He pushed you out the door. “Go. Have a good day. I love you. Bye.”  
  
“But—"  
  
“I packed you clothes for tonight if you want to go out, your gym clothes, and work clothes for tomorrow. There’s some E in there, too. You have everything you need.”  
  
You tried to appeal to the maniacally horny part of him that you were suddenly really missing, “But I need to fuck you tonight.”  
  
“You can make it up to me.”  
  
“Oh, well, in that case—" You moved toward him, thinking that if you just started that immediately, he’d forget all about this nonsense, but he was on to you.  
  
“Jesus, you’re a drama queen. Go to work. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”  
  
He shut the door and waived to you from the window. You could hear him laughing all the way to the car. Where was Dr. Kinney when you needed him?  
  
*******************  
_reflections of the fears I know I left behind_  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
When you were a kid, your father would take you and Claire to Hershey Park. It was the only activity you can really remember doing with your dad. The images have become aged and distorted in your mind, but you’re never able to doubt their veracity. Jack enjoyed those outings because he could smoke the entire time and because you and Claire could pretty much occupy yourselves. You enjoyed it, too, up to the point when you got to the roller coasters. Your father had to ride with you because Claire wasn’t tall enough, and because, for some reason, your dad wouldn’t let you go alone. Claire would pitch a fit at being forced to stay behind, but your dad would give her a dollar so she could buy some ice cream and that always seemed to calm her down.  
  
The older you got, the more you began to dread those roller coaster rides. There was something about the look on your father’s face, the pleasure he seemed to get when he knew that you were terrified. It was as if he’d decided that being willing to ride a roller coaster was somehow a mark of your character. You always felt that your manhood was at stake. And when Claire was finally tall enough to go, he still went with both of you, his eyes always focused on your face at the top of the first hill.  
  
The year that Hershey Park got a twin coaster was the last year your father took the two of you. You insisted on riding in the first car and that he ride in the other. He didn’t realize that the trains would part after the first hill, and he’d be separated from you until the end of the ride. You laughed at him when the trains parted ways.  
  
And when you remember it—and even though the technology wasn’t available then—you always picture the ride operator snapping a picture of you and your father when you were the most terrified and selling it to you on the way out. You can never stop yourself; you buy it every single time.  
  
*******************  
_I got the rockin’ pneumonia and the boogie woogie flu_  
  
You smoked all the way to work that day, feeling like a complete idiot for not figuring out that Justin was up to something… _He only ate my ass last night because he was going to toss me out on it this morning…_ You were grouchy once you got to work, screamed at Theodore because your revised, third quarter projections weren’t on your desk the minute you walked in, and then barked at Cynthia because she’d (supposedly) forgotten to remind you that you had a conference call with Nate at eight thirty, and you’d arrived at eight thirty-two. You knew you were being a royal ass and avoided everyone for the rest of the day.  
  
Ruben was thrilled to see you at Babylon that night—(he was the only one that was)—and you helped him serve so that he could spend more time walking along the bar on his hands and less time pouring. (You’d made at least one person happy.) Zeek was there, but he always took his job too seriously when you were around. During a lull in the bar traffic, you found yourself watching the security feed from the new backroom in The Mecca, and actually thought that those older guys looked really pathetic hitting on those twinks. One night without Justin and your world had turned completely upside down. _Pathetic._  
  
The loft was too quiet, the bed felt too big, and you kept waiting for him to join you in the shower. The next morning, you had to get your own coffee, and while you were sitting at the bar drinking it, you took your wedding ring off and gave it a piece of your mind… _Look what you’ve done to me._  
  
It knew you didn’t mean it and ignored you.  
  
*******************  
_he came a long way just to explain_  
  
So by the time you finally got home Tuesday night, you felt as if the twin coasters were finally pulling into the station. Justin seemed genuinely glad to see you, led you up the stairs, and then made you close your eyes before you stepped into your bedroom. It smelled different.  
  
“Okay, open your eyes.” He’d painted…the walls.  
  
“Whoa.”  
  
“You hate it?”  
  
You loved it. He’d completely redecorated. Gone were the dark blue linens, the dark blue walls, and in their place was dark brown. He’d recreated your entire bedroom to compliment the painting hanging over the bed. The walls were a warm coffee color, the hardwood floors looked fantastic with the new color scheme, the bed frame was a beautiful, dark cherry, the comforter and pillows…  
  
“Neiman Marcus. Do you really like it?”  
  
“It looks amazing.”  
  
He was grinning from ear to ear, “I put our old stuff in the guest bedroom.”  
  
“I can’t believe you did all this by yourself.”  
  
“I know. I got inspired.”  
  
“How much did this set me back?”  
  
“Oh please, do you really care?”  
  
“That bad, huh?” You pulled the comforter back to feel the dark brown sheets. “Brown sheets. You’re tired of doing laundry?”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
It was funny actually. There were two more sets just like them in the linen closet. You had to admire his practicality. “Where’s the chair that was in the corner?”  
  
“Being recovered.”  
  
“Wow.” You pushed him down on your brand new bed and started peeling his pants off. “Is this why Zeek called in sick yesterday?”  
  
“Just fuck me.”  
  
*******************  
_can I help it if I think you’re funny when you’re mad?_  
  
_Sunday morning, April 3, 2011_  
  
You didn’t know it then, but that Sunday morning marked the beginning of the last twenty-four hours of domestic bliss that you and Justin would have for quite a while. You spent it arguing with him about what he was making for breakfast, informing him,  
  
“I’m not eating French Toast for breakfast, Justin.”  
  
“If I make it, you’re going to eat it.” It smelled really good. “Besides, it’s fat free.”  
  
He was such a little liar, “Justin, I’m watching you make it. Do you think I’m an idiot?”  
  
He cracked another egg, “Well, then, don’t look.” You walked to the sink to rinse out your coffee cup, and when you were done, you popped him in the ass with a dish towel. “What are you? Five?” he asked.  
  
You wrapped your arms around him, letting your head rest on his shoulder, “Well, apparently I am since I’m being mothered to death.”  
  
He rolled his eyes, “What would you know about mothering?”  
  
“You’re so moody when you cook.”  
  
He laid his spatula down and turned around in your arms, “This isn’t mothering; it’s a very rare type of foreplay practiced only by extremely attractive, candy-ass, blond men under thirty who put up with your bullshit because you’re the most beautiful man and the best goddamn lay in the Western hemisphere.”  
  
You held him tighter, “ _That_ is the most intelligent thing to come out of your mouth since the day I met you, Sunshine.”  
  
“Well, I’m wicked-smart.”  
  
“And wicked-modest.”  
  
……  
  
So the two of you ate French Toast and read the paper, and the kitchen was epitome of peaceful again, until he told you, “I just think you should know, I’m firing the pool boy tomorrow.”  
  
Your section of the paper landed on your plate and was immediately soaked in syrup, “Excuse me?” The fuck he was.  
  
“I’m going to fire him tomorrow.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
You assumed that Justin was having another crisis of conscience, “Look, so what if he’s not legal. Who cares?”  
  
“I don’t care if he’s legal or not.”  
  
“Then why do you want to get rid of him?” You thought about it for a minute, and then added, “Because Zeek fucks him in the pool house?”  
  
“You know about that?”  
  
“Of course. He leaves evidence all over the place.”  
  
“That’s not why.”  
  
You took his newspaper away from him so he could stop hiding behind it, “Then why?”  
  
“Because he doesn’t listen to me.”  
  
_Good lord._  
  
“I don’t care if he wipes his ass on the welcome mat, Justin, you’re not firing him. You have no idea how long it took me to train him to do the yard, and the pool, and everything the way I want it done.”  
  
“Twice I’ve thrown those ugly ass gnome statues away, and twice he knocks on the damn door, and when I answer it, he says, ‘Here, Misser Taylor. You make mistake.’”  
  
You started laughing.  
  
“It’s not funny, Brian.”  
  
“Don’t throw those statues away. I like them.”  
  
“You would. Might as well have pink flamingos in the front yard.”  
  
……  
  
He’d lied to you that morning. That French Toast was fattier than hell and you were completely unable to charm any foreplay out of it. When Justin refused to blow you in the shower, you pinned him against the wall and told him, “Excuse me, Misser Taylor. You make mistake.”  
  
He got out of the shower before you, and when you were finally ready to leave the comfort of the pelting, hot water, every towel in the bathroom was gone.  
  
“Get your candy-ass back here, Misser Taylor!” (He’d taken the rug, too.)  
  
_“YOU MAKE MISTAKE!”_  
  
*******************  
_c’mon ride the train_  


 

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
Hershey Park was home to a wooden coaster called _The Timber Trap_. As roller coasters go, it approached its mission in life much differently. It wasn’t there to wow you with the latest technology or to take you higher than you’d ever been before; its purpose was much more subtle: to teach you to expect the unexpected. You’ll never forget the noise it made, the rickety symphony you were treated to each time you road it. There was nothing unstable or unsafe about the ride, but it was determined to make you think that there was. And then there was always the best part: diving between the trees. The train wound through the enclosed forest thrilling you yet forever obstructing your view of what was going to happen next.  
  
There was a time in your early twenties when you returned to Hershey Park with Michael in tow to relive all of the experiences that were so vivid in your mind. And as they often are, the memories were more enticing than the reality. When the two of you left the park that day, you looked back over your shoulder and thought, _This is the last time I’ll ever come here._ But just like the predetermined tracks of that wooden coaster, your destination was pre-arranged and your journey to the end would be complete with free falls into a dark, screaming forest.  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Alanis Morissette’s _Ironic_ , The Temptations’ _The Way You Do the Things You Do_ , Smokey Robinson & The Miracles’s _I Second that Emotion_ , Jimmy Buffet’s _Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?_ , Aaron Neville’s _Everybody Plays the Fool_ , David Seville’s _Witch Doctor_ , _Interjections_ from _School House Rock_ twice, Haddaway’s _What is Love (Baby, Don’t Hurt Me No More_ , Blue Traveler’s _Run Around_ , The Trogg’s _Wild Thing_ , The Proclaimer’s _I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)_ , Heather Small’s _Proud_ , Johnny Rivers’s _Rockin’ Pneumonia_ , Paul Simon’s _Slip Slidin’ Away_ , Bare Naked Ladies’s _One Week_ , and the Quad City DJ’s _C’mon & Ride It (The Train)_.


	30. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 27-Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 6/25/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 27-GRAVITY**  
  
 **STITCH’S POV**  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _my only friend is the city I live in_   
  
_Monday morning, April 4, 2011_  
  
The underbelly of New York City was as alive and forgotten as its residents. You lived so far below that if one were to flip the city on its axis, you’d be the one living in the penthouse of a high rise and Trump would have the walls of his palace decorated with crusted sewage. The city’s life force ran beneath its streets, descending layers of phone and electrical wires, gas, water, and steam lines, and sewer tunnels. Beneath the city, an abandoned gas main was considered prime real estate, the original property of one of New York City’s fifteen gas companies in the mid-nineteenth century. As those companies merged over the years, pipelines were shut off and left behind, tunnels to nowhere. And there were the random artifacts frozen in time: a ninety-two-foot long merchant sailing ship found under Front Street where its stern still sits, the wooden stockade built to keep out intruders (Indians) hundreds of years ago that gave Wall Street its name. The world marches on every day in taxi cabs and skyscrapers, but you lived in the past, in centuries of unsuccessful executions by myopic city planners. Ideas were often like people in the city; they were given one chance to prove themselves, and when they didn’t, they, too, were discarded--out of sight, out of mind. The people on the surface had christened you ‘mole people;’ the lore insisting that after years of living in cold, dark, filthy tunnels, all would turn into rat-like creatures whose teeth would automatically sharpen, an accessory to compliment expert night vision.   
  
It was an unfair characterization and an old one. Prior to 1990, there were thousands of people living in the shadows of the city, but over the years, law enforcement and so called ‘Outreach Groups’ had routinely tossed your quarters, forcing those of you who had no intention of returning to an aboveground society to keep moving, over and over again. Those who were determined to stay went deeper and deeper because every cop had his limit of how far he’d descend to do a day’s work.   
  
When you joined the ranks of the tunnel dwellers after the first Gulf War, you learned fast which cops and social workers you could trust and which were more likely to enforce New York’s newly-passed statute allowing involuntary commitment. The number of people actively trying to ‘resolve’ the homeless problem kept diminishing over the time, and you ran and ran and ran from them and their offers of ‘help’ until they finally got tired of looking.  
  
There was only once in your underground life that you felt lucky to have been forsaken. Your indication that something wasn’t right upstairs on that September day ten years ago was the exact opposite of the one the rest of the world received. Your domain fell completely silent. Never in all of your years of living in the tunnels had the trains ever stopped before nine a.m. You waited for a while, until curiosity got the better of you and your improvised family, and made your way to the surface with a fellow veteran close behind you. Everyone else was told to stay behind.  
  
When you reached the top, the sunlight and fresh air that should’ve been filtering through the camouflaged opening of the tunnel weren’t. The towers had fallen, and the two of you ushered some of the terrified crowd into the entrance you’d just emerged from. The twenty or so city dwellers that you took in tried to piece together what had happened. It was one of the few times in your life that you didn’t feel out of place. They were all as filthy as desperate as you’d ever been. It was then that you realized that being a New Yorker was about attitude, not altitude.   
  
*******************  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _there’s a bad moon on the rise_   
  
The first thing you forfeit when you concede to life in a crawl space is your memory of the life you had. You’d think that the hardest thing about being homeless would be not having food or shelter, but that’s easy compared to teaching yourself to forget who you were. Once you’ve forgotten, the transition becomes so much easier—a doctor who failed on the surface becomes a healer again, a teacher advocates literacy for a people who have no books, a priest who hears the confessions of those who’ve already gone to hell.   
  
The going price for redemption is dignity.  
  
As in any society, there’s a pecking order beneath the streets that determines where you’ll sleep, what you’ll eat, and how safe you’ll be. Security in the tubes is bought and sold in human comforts that you don’t dare allow to knit into your memory. There’s no reason to remember each day or month or year, so instead you focus on the challenge of a particular instance, experience it and move on.   
  
You’d invited Alan to live with you years ago, after you’d watched him come and go, quietly loitering at the entrances to one of the more coveted tunnels. You’d pass him everyday on your way to the soup kitchen, and the two of you would watch each other carefully, knowing that the odds were that neither of you could be trusted. He got his nerve up one day and asked if he could follow you, and you nodded. You’d been together ever since.  
  
Having Alan around worked for you. He’d willingly make the trips to the kitchens and shelters, getting you anything you needed, his way of thanking you for giving him a safe and consistent place to sleep. He listened to every story you every told and kept your bed warm in the winter. There was safety in numbers where you lived--an unfinished restroom on a subway route that’d been ultimately rejected, but, by some demolition oversight, still had running water. You killed the guy who had it before you because he told you to; he was dying of AIDS. You shot him and stuffed his body in a pipe. You had twenty years on Alan; twenty years and a semi-private, rent-controlled bathroom in the bowels of the city to show for it.  
  
After you’d known Alan for a month or so, he admitted that he’d waited at the end of your particular tunnel because he wanted to meet you. “I’d seen your murals everywhere. After a while, I could recognize your style without having to look at your tag.” So you took him with you when you painted the tunnels, and as he got more and more comfortable, he began to show you what he could do. Once you were able to teach him how to control his can so it didn’t drip, his talent exploded. When the two of you weren’t painting, you were designing murals and scoping out ‘canvases.’   
  
There was no better canvas in the middle of the night than parked trains, perched to take off the next morning. It was dangerous to paint them because there were always cops and workers around, but because Alan’s father had worked in the subway system for years, Alan knew the schedules the transit workers kept. And after an undisturbed night of painting a four- or eight-car mural, there was nothing more satisfying than hiding where you could watch your masterpiece zoom by ablaze with color and gauge the reactions of the passengers. They always seemed intrigued by your work, and it only egged the two of you on—to design something better and to paint it somewhere even more risky.   
  
Every underground joy is short lived, though, and your work would be gone by nightfall, pressure washed by some minimum-wage lackey with an acidic mixture that stripped the paint right off. When the city began to replace old trains with ones that were literally graffiti-proof, you and Alan moved on to other things. His sister was an artist in the city, and he’d often come back from seeing her with copies of her sketches, photographs of his sister and his little niece, or sometimes he’d just describe something he’d seen and you’d draw it as he talked. Those were your favorites.   
  
Not everyone who lived under the streets was an original artist. You’d known plenty of guys (and one woman) over the years who could recreate a work by Monet or Matisse from memory. One guy you knew favored variations of Warhol, using cans of spray paint rather than soup cans, his reasoning that he might have to eat soup all day, but he sure as hell didn’t have to paint it. It was Alan’s idea to paint ‘tributes’ to his sister. _"She’s the only one who lets me be who I am."_  
  
……   
  
You always know when it’s Monday because the train schedule changes. They run more often, make more stops, and the roar above your room gets louder much earlier. You fall asleep to that roar, tending to favor a nocturnal schedule, and very early that morning you remember seeing Alan get dressed by candlelight before he left. You started to worry when the afternoon rush hour was winding down, and Alan still wasn’t home. He’d been gone too long.  
  
*******************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _and some have to live with the scars_   
  
_Monday morning, April 4, 2011_  
  
Five hours and the blood was still staining your sidewalk. Five hours and no one could tell you what the fuck happened. Sooner or later, the exhaustion of climbing Mt. Sinai would descend upon you.  
  
It would happen a couple of hours later while you were sitting in the hospital’s cafeteria with Jonathon, drinking bad coffee and sucking chocolate pudding off a plastic spoon. The texture was soothing you. Nothing was soothing Jonathon. A psychiatrist who can’t hide his own frustration is painful to be around and his was achingly evident.   
  
“I wish you’d say something, Dan.” He’d only been shortening your name for the last year or so.  
  
“There’s nothing to say.” The exhaustion was starting to hit you, the numbness just starting to wear off.  
  
……  
  
Sometimes Jonathon wears his clinical training on his sleeve, “There’s always something to say.”  
  
“Okay. They won’t let me clean the blood off the sidewalk.”  
  
*******************  
 **ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _I think it’s death that must be killing me_   
  
It’s true what they say—there is a light at the end of the tunnel. But you didn’t need it. You could feel where you were going and knew where you were going to end up, and the events that brought you to this place were already starting to fade. Memory can be such a fickle mistress…  
  
Perhaps if you’d known that yesterday would be your last day on earth, you’d have done something different, varied your routine. But even sewer rats are creatures of habit.   
  
Twenty-four hours ago, you waited outside Daniel’s place. It was before five a.m. You didn’t need a watch when you were around him; he was the poster child for punctuality. You made a fateful decision the day you refused the key he offered you. “I trust you, Alan,” he told you. You thanked him and then left it on the kitchen counter, unable to tell him that you slept next to people who would kill for that key. You spoke little about your subterranean lifestyle because it provoked a rescue-reflex in most everybody. When he'd emerged at five a.m., he'd let you in. You always locked the door behind you.  
  
You were grateful for the chance to shower, eat, and sleep before Harper and Amelia arrived. Harper was rarely punctual, generally oblivious to those trying to keep a schedule.   
  
Amelia would’ve greeted you that day with her ‘Uncle Alan’ dance which was different each time, but always clamoring hard for your attention. You could see your sister in Amelia’s philosophy: _If you can’t beat them, entertain them._ Had you seen Harper that day, she would’ve told you that she was barely pregnant—somewhere between nine and eleven weeks.   
  
Were you sitting on Daniel’s steps that morning thinking about Amelia’s smile? About how, after the dance, she’d stand on a stool to reach a ‘big people’ easel and paint with one eye always glued to her mother, imitating her facial expressions? Or were you absorbing the dread that was rounding the corner, clinging to you like a cobweb?   
  
You’d never get the answer to either.  
  
*******************  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _I know who I want to take me home_   
  
_Alan James Harper  
1981-2011_  
  
Death was much more efficient than life. Your spirit flew out of you in those last moments, not interested in chaperoning your body anymore. It had other more important things to take care of. You could feel the weight of obligation pressing on your shoulders; something you hadn’t felt in years. You had a role to play in all of this. It was your turn to chaperone someone else…  
  
 _Madeline Ruth Collins  
April 5, 2011_  
  
Madeline. She was the reason you had to wait. The reason that every step you took kept you in the exact same place, some sort of existential treadmill. It took about twenty-four hours for her to come.   
  
She arrived just as you had, empty handed. She seemed to need you, and you carried her with no memory of ever picking her up. Light as a feather. Her tiny fingers clinging to the one button left on your jacket.  
  
It was finally time to go.  
  
*******************  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _as long as you follow_   
  
You stopped walking when the water was covering your feet, glancing up when it began to look pink, and there she was, waiting for you.  
  
“Alley.”  
  
“Mom.”  
  
She wasn’t alone.   
  
“Nurse Tate.”  
  
Her smile was as bright as her uniform, “Alley-oop. Good to see you.”  
  
By the time your mother was less than a foot in front of you, you were ankle-deep in water. “She’s my grand-daughter?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Madeline didn’t cry when your mother took her and held her next to her wet body, her thin nightgown completely transparent. “She looks just like Josie, doesn’t she?” she remarked, taking your hand and urging you to walk with her. And then as if she wanted to give you her full attention, handed Madeline over to Nurse Tate who hugged and kissed her, making her smile for the first time. Your mother tugged on your hand, pulling you forward. There was nothing in front of you but an urge to keep going.  
  
You didn’t have to talk to her if you didn’t want to; she knew everything, as if your thoughts were being fed to her through your entwined fingers. The walking continued, and then she stopped, squeezing your hand and turning to you, “It’s okay, Alley. You only see what you remember.”  
  
*******************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _can’t for the life of me remember a sadder day_   
  
_Tuesday, April 5, 2011_   
  
You didn’t want to leave the hospital that Monday night, but Harper had insisted that you take Amelia and go, that she and Sam would stay with Alan. So, you reluctantly agreed and took a cab back to your place with Amelia asleep on your shoulder. You got home around nine-thirty, and tucked Amelia into what you’d always think of as Justin’s room, made a sandwich, and listened to your messages. Jonathon had helped you out earlier that morning by canceling the rest of your week and calling Justin. His was the only voice on your answering machine that resonated with you at all, telling you that he would arrive tomorrow morning.   
  
You were awakened a little before one a.m. by Amelia, crying for her mother. You walked down the hall to her room where she was sitting up in bed with tears streaming down her face.  
  
“Amelia, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Mommy.”  
  
She crawled into your lap when you sat down beside her and told her, “Mommy is with Uncle Alan, but we’ll see her in the morning. Remember?”  
  
“I can’t find the potty.”  
  
“You need to go potty?”  
  
“I can’t find it.”  
  
You carried her down the hall to the bathroom, helped her, and then took her back to her room, staying with her until she fell asleep again. She slept the rest of the night, awakening a little before six. You hadn’t fared as well.   
  
It’d been twenty-four hours since you’d found Alan, bruised and bloodied, half of his body lying in your rosebushes. There was blood on the sidewalk and a trail where they dragged his body. You did everything you were supposed to do in a situation like that; you called 9-1-1, checked his airway, his pulse, your sleeves stained red. Afraid to move him, you moved the bushes instead so you could really see him. He groaned when he saw you; he couldn’t smile. You asked him repeatedly what had happened while you were trying to help him, and although the ambulance’s sirens were getting closer and closer, you heard the one word that he finally spoke, “Pigs.”  
  
At breakfast that Tuesday morning, Amelia was bright-eyed again as you made bacon, eggs, and toast. And as you sat her plate in front of her, she announced, “I’m having breakfast with Dr. Car-ride.”  
  
“You certainly are,” you told her.   
  
“And then, I’m going to go see Mommy.”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
“But I’m not going by myself.”  
  
“That’s right. You’re going with me.”  
  
“Yeah,” she agreed, as you saved her from spilling orange juice down the front of her shirt, “I’m going with you.”  
  
*******************  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _oh very young_   
  
Jonathon was waiting outside the hospital for you when you pulled up. You knew by the look on his face. “He didn’t make it?”   
  
Jonathon shook his head, confirming your worst fears, “No, he died on the table, but…” He paused, looking at Amelia and then back at you. You put her down, watching her out of the corner of your eye as she tapped her feet on the bricks.  
  
“But what?”  
  
“She lost the baby.”  
  
……  
  
You held your hand out, calling her name, “Amelia, come here.” She came back, wandering between the two of you, using your legs as columns of some sort. “When?” you asked him.  
  
“Early this morning. She went into labor around eleven last night.”  
  
"Why didn't you call me?" you asked.  
  
"What were you gonna do? You're a shrink, not an obstetrician."  
  
“They couldn’t stop it?” you asked.  
  
Again, Jonathon shook his head, “No. They tried.”  
  
You peeled Amelia off of your pant legs, picked her up, and began to walk into the hospital. Jonathon followed behind, matching your pace, “Dan, she doesn’t know about him yet.”  
  
You walked quickly through the echoing hospital lobby, hitting the ‘up’ button on the elevator before Amelia had a chance to ask. Jonathon was right behind you, and Amelia stared over your shoulder, informing him, “Me and Dr. Car-ride are going in the evelator, Dr. Jon.”  
  
“So am I.”  
  
The elevator was crowded, but you let Amelia press number six anyway. Little things like that made her so happy.  
  
You left Amelia with Jonathon in the maternity waiting room and went to find Harper’s room. When you knocked on the door, Sam answered, looking like he’d been up for days. He opened the door and stepped aside so you could enter; Harper was sound asleep.  
  
“She’s sedated,” he told you.  
  
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”  
  
He said nothing, just sat down in the chair beside her bed, “She doesn’t know yet—that he didn’t make it.” His face rested in his hands, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.”   
  
“One thing at a time.”  
  
“They fucking murdered him, Dan. Fucking murdered him.” You didn’t know what to say, so you remained quiet, moving to sit in a chair next to him. "How’s Amelia?" he asked. "Was she a nightmare last night?”  
  
“Not at all,” you told him. “She’s out there with Jon right now.”  
  
“Let her come in.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
You wandered back down the hall and found her sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a copy of _Redbook_ while Jonathon fiddled with the television. She threw it down when she saw you, turning around on her stomach, and sliding out of her chair, “I wanna go see Mommy.”  
  
“Come with me; I'll take you.”  
  
She held your hand as you walked down the hall, her little black shoes announcing her arrival long before she got to Harper’s room. Sam was standing in the doorway, “Hey, pretty girl. I heard you coming.”  
  
“I heard me, too,” she told her father, lifting her arms so he’d pick her up. “Where's Mommy?” she asked, her little hands resting on his face.  
  
“She’s in here, but she’s sound asleep. Can you whisper?”  
  
“ _Yes,_ ” she demonstrated.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You stood in the hall and waited, your hands in your pockets, and stared at the floor.  
  
*******************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _everything can change in a New York minute_   
  
_earlier that Tuesday morning_  
  
Kinney had called a meeting a eight o’clock sharp, and had you not already known the agenda, you would’ve when Rube showed up on time with no visible toys in his hands. There were no seats left next to Cynthia when you arrived, so you took one next to Rube, reassuring him as Kinney spoke that you wouldn’t be gone that long. Debbie _shh_ ed you.   
  
After everyone at Kinney’s round table had been given their marching orders, you told Gabe good-bye and took one last whiff of Cynthia’s perfume before joining Kinney and Justin in the limousine that had been waiting outside. It was the first time you’d been a passenger in a limo and not the driver. Brian hadn’t wanted to park his Mercedes at the airport this time, not knowing how long he’d be gone.  
  
It was also the first time you’d ever flown first class. Your ticket was bought and paid for before you could even blink, and that Tuesday morning, it landed you in the aisle seat in row six with Justin to your right and Kinney to his, his status seeming to automatically grant him the window seat on your one-way flight to New York City.  
  
You spent your forty-five minutes accepting any and all alcohol offered to you while you looked over Justin’s shoulder as he flipped through a folder of pencil sketches he’d done of Alan over the years. Your favorites were the ones that he and Harper were in and the one of Alan and Harper’s daughter. It was the first time you’d ever seen Amelia.  
  
At one point during the flight, Justin turned to you with a bag of peantus in his hand, "Do you want these? I'm not going to eat them."  
  
You looked at him like he was a moron, "No, thank you. I don't want your nuts."  
  
Admittedly, had this happened a month earlier, you would’ve refused to sit that close to Justin without an armed escort, but Kinney seemed to be taking things in stride. You didn’t have to have x-ray vision, though, to see that underneath Justin’s tray table, his hand was wound around Justin’s leg for the majority of the flight.   
  
*******************  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _start spreading the news_   
  
LaGuardia was a zoo that morning, but eventually the three of you ended up in a cab headed for Mt. Sinai Hospital. You were anxious to see Alan. During the plane ride, Justin had been filling you in on the years you’d missed when you followed your little brother to Pittsburgh. Kinney had barely spoken.  
  
Riding in the back seat of that taxi cab with them reminded you of every good movie you’d ever seen that was set in the South. There were always three men in a truck in those movies, smashed together in some kind of tobacco-chewing camaraderie. Kinney was going on to his hotel to check in and lose his luggage after he dropped you and Justin off. When the cabbie stopped in front of the hospital, Kinney helped Justin out, and then jumped back in. You were still sitting there, frozen, as you listened to the news at the top of the hour on _WAXQ_ :  
  
 _“Mt. Sinai Hospital has just confirmed the death of Alan Harper, the homeless man assaulted by two New York City police officers yesterday morning in front of the home of a prominent New York psychiatrist. Dr. Daniel Cartwright has testified for the prosecution on several police brutality cases over the last ten years. The connection between the assault and Cartwright’s testimony has yet to be determined, but is being investigated, according to detectives working the case. Harper is the son of James Harper, a twenty year veteran of the Metropolitan Transit Authority. He could not be reached for comment on his son’s death.”_  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s _Under the Bridge_ , Credence Clearwater Revival’s _Bad Moon on the Rise_ , Elton John’s _Circle of Life_ , The Wallflower’s _One Headlight_ , Semisonic’s _Closing Time_ , Fleetwood Mac’s _As Long as You Follow_ , Paul Simon’s _Mother and Child Reunion_ , Cat Stevens’s _Oh Very Young_ , Don Henley’s _New York Minute_ , and Frank Sinatra’s _New York New York_. Icon bases used in this chapter came from [basicbases](http://community.livejournal.com/basicbases/profile), [obsessiveicons](http://community.livejournal.com/obsessiveicons/profile), and [khushi_icons](http://community.livejournal.com/khushi_icons/profile). The following books were used as research for this chapter: [_The Mole People by Jennifer Toth_](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/155652241X/qid=1151271620/sr=2-1/ref=pd_bbs_b_2_1/103-9685050-7697405?s=books&v=glance&n=283155) and [_New York Underground: The Anatomy of a City by Julia Solis._](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0415950139/qid=1151271705/sr=2-1/ref=pd_bbs_b_2_1/103-9685050-7697405?s=books&v=glance&n=283155)


	31. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 28-Provenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/10/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 28-PROVENANCE**   
  
**STITCH'S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _and I don't want to feel like I did that day_   
  
_Tuesday afternoon, April 5, 2011_  
  
You knew the papers would get it wrong. They'd use a word like 'slain' in the headline like it was the antiseptic that would make this go away. They'd address how overworked the force was, the recent increase in vagrant crime, how it was out of character for one of their own to do something so heinous.   
  
The word on the street was that Alan was dead. Gone. Beaten to death by a couple of rogue cops who were a little too fond of their night stick. You knew it was true because a relatively new member of your clan was hanging around your doorway, wanting to claim Alan’s side of the bed. You ignored him Monday night, your wound too fresh for a replacement. And it wasn't like you'd never lost a man before. In fact, the scales were starting to tip--more of your friends were dead than alive. But Alan was different. He wasn't somebody that fought beside you in a hole in the desert; he needed to be fought for.  
  
Your mission had failed.  
  
A man can survive without a job, without a house, without his family, but he can't survive without a purpose. You paid for your copy of the New York Times that day. It was yours, this proof of his existence, this record of his death, fair and square. A decade later, your death would go unnoticed.   
  
In many ways, life beneath the streets was the reverse image of life above them. The farther down you went, the more death was ignored, a pesky detail of life. Go deep enough, and it was almost a non-event. Mourning was quick; prolonging it only amplified the sting of survival. You took the path Alan would've taken that day, your pockets lined with pictures serving as a compass.  
  
People who saw you on the streets that day would’ve seen your camouflage clothing and thought nothing of it. Nothing of the fact that you fought for your country, that you made it home alive. You were practically invisible to everyone, save the random veteran who stopped to tell you that you had no right to wear that uniform. They never lingered long enough for you to set them straight.  
  
Much like the Middle East had been for Bush One and Two, Alan was a target to people in power. People—upstairs and downstairs alike—misunderstood him. They saw his ability to keep a foot in both worlds as disloyalty. But it wasn’t. Alan was extremely observant and not above altering his appearance or apparent stature in life just to make someone else comfortable. You never would’ve taken him in had he showed up clean shaven and in brand new clothes. He knew it, and so did you. But to those sworn to protect the upstairs, he was seen as conniving and unaware of his real place in society. They knew who he was, the estranged son of a man who’d spent decades in the subway systems gladly routing out any undesirables. Alan had just been the one who wouldn’t leave.  
  
You used to tease Alan and call him a ‘shape-shifter’ and he’d always laugh because it was true. He had a sense of humor about himself and carried a personal humility with him in place of a wallet. You walked the streets that day with a sketch of his sister in your pocket. It was Alan’s favorite because he was in it, too.  
  
Alan had done something, albeit by dying, that few in your community had ever accomplished—he’d become part of the upstairs landscape. In an odd way, you were proud of him—and determined to become a part of it yourself, if only briefly, if only to say good-bye.   
  
*******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _Tuesday’s child is full of grace_  
  
Your suite at The Regency, Zeek informed you, was bigger than Rube’s old apartment. Zeek was staying with his parents, claiming that he was long overdue for a visit. Upon hearing the reason for her eldest son’s visit to the city, Mama Zirrolli began a lasagna-making frenzy that would’ve put Debbie to shame. Nobody mourns hungry if Mama Zirrolli has anything to say about it. You knew you’d be eating your share.  
  
After depositing your luggage, you took a cab back to Mt. Sinai and then stood at the information desk, unsure of who to ask for. You called Justin from the lobby, and he told you to meet him on the sixth floor. You were the only person in the elevator.  
  
When the doors opened, he was standing there waiting for you, holding the hand of a little girl who’d have been absolutely perfect for the soy milk commercial you’d made the week before. You kissed him out of habit-- perhaps because you’d just walked through a doorway-- and then looked down at her. She smiled at you like you were Santa Claus.  
  
“Who are you?” she wanted to know.  
  
“Brian Kinney. Who are you?”  
  
“Amelia Harper Collins.”  
  
“Nice to meet you. How old is she?” you asked Justin.  
  
“Almost-three going on almost-thirty.”  
  
Amelia had already moved on to the next subject, “You kissed Waffle.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
But she was on a mission, intent on pulling Justin down the hall toward a large grey sign that read: _Vending Machines._   
  
“She thinks I’m going to buy her a Coke,” Justin whispered to you. Amelia was fascinated with the vending machine area, pressing every red button she could find and then immediately putting her face in the beverage return to see if something was coming. After a minute or so, Justin burst her bubble. “Amelia, you have to put money in before anything will come out.”  
  
“Just wait a minute,” she told him. Justin rolled his eyes. Amelia decided to sneak up on the machine and push a button, convinced that method would work. When the sneak attack failed, she walked right up to you, patting your pockets to see if you had anything, “I need some money, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“I don’t have any,” you told her.  
  
She didn’t believe you, “You have a big nose.”  
  
Justin translated for you, “She means ‘your nose is growing,’ like Pinocchio. She thinks you’re lying.”  
  
So you clarified, “I don’t have the kind of money that the machine wants.” It was true; there was nothing smaller than a fifty in your wallet. You prayed the words ‘debit card’ weren’t in her vocabulary yet. Unable to charm either of you out of a dollar, she gave up. The two of you followed her back down the hall to her mother’s room. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.  
  
*******************  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _like a nervous magician waiting in the wings_   
  
You weren’t nervous meeting Justin’s friends, just dressed to impress. (The man that Justin introduced to you as Daniel Cartwright had done the same.) You were more curious than anything, curious to see who Justin had passed his time with when he lived there, soon discovering that they were as much of a motley crew as any of your friends. You met Harper in her hospital room that Amelia had escorted you to, but she didn’t really come out of her shell until later that afternoon when all of you were in Daniel’s house. She and Justin were deep in conversation, laughing with one another, sharing stories. The tale at that moment was the oft-told ‘Justin and the Franken-kitchen,’ so you began to tune him out; that kind of talk was completely unnecessary. You’d all but abandoned iWWINN® by that time and were just praying that Anderson Cooper didn’t notice your lack of postings on the members-only iWWINN® blog and report you.   
  
Justin’s former studio looked about like you’d expected. The walls and floor were a pristine white, similar to the décor in the rest of Daniel’s place with the exception of the explosion of color in the corner occupied with Amelia’s play kitchen, complete with a washer and dryer. There were stunning black and white photographs of Amelia and Sam and one of Justin that Harper admitted to framing after he left hanging on the walls. _”I missed you.”_ It didn’t take long to realize that the people occupying the space were the color Daniel needed in his life. When you sat down on the sofa in the studio to relax for a minute, your solitude was short lived. Amelia was immediately in front of you, holding on to the outer edges of her yellow dress, asking you, “Wanna see me do a dance?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Clap your hands, Brime Kinney.” she instructed you.  
  
“You have to dance first. If you’re good, I’ll clap.”  
  
“’That’s not how you’re 'upposed to do it,” she chastised you, and then went to get her father, “Clap, Daddy.”  
  
“A fast clap or a slow clap?” he asked.  
  
“Slow then fast. Like this.” She began a routine that looked like ‘Epileptic Seizure Meets River Dance.’ Apparently, Sam’s lineage was littered with the square-dancing sort. He clapped his hands and tapped his foot while Amelia performed for you. “I’m so good,” she told you.  
  
You agreed, “You sure are. You have a ton of energy.”  
  
Five minutes later she was zonked out on the sofa beside you. She’d fallen asleep to your applause.  
  
“Works every time,” Sam said.  
  
*******************  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?  
one without a permanent scar?_   
  
Daniel’s place had the atmosphere of a ‘do-drop-inn.’ You were comfortable enough to leave Justin and walk downstairs in search of liquid refreshment, finding Daniel and Jonathon in the kitchen. Daniel was making salad and Jonathon was leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand. He offered you one, and when you declined, Daniel turned to you, “Something stronger?”  
  
“That’d be great.”  
  
“Liquor cabinet. Living room.”  
  
Daniel’s liquor cabinet reminded you of Lindsay’s—way too tame for your taste. He had only enough hard liquor on hand to make you annoying. Zeek was sitting in front of Daniel’s wide screen watching a boxing match, and he seemed to notice your dismay, “There’s not enough Jack in there to beam me anywhere. Don’t bother.” He turned off the television and continued, “But there’s a bar down the street.”  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
You told Justin you were going to refuel, and he waved you off, “Have fun.”  
  
……  
  
You were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs and to roam the streets with a man wearing a completely inappropriate shirt for Alan’s spontaneous wake:   
  
  
  
“Where’d you get that shirt?” you asked him.  
  
“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Some dumb ass probably left it in the backroom and I appropriated it.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use a word with that many syllables, Rocky.”  
  
“Yeah, and it’s only three o’clock.” And he wasn’t even wearing a watch.  
  
……  
  
It became immediately apparent to you as Zeek took a seat at the bar that he’d fucked the bartender. She had long, dark brown hair, very white teeth, and a smile that had clearly peeled Zeek’s pants off in a prior life.  
  
“I haven’t seen you in ages. Where you been?” she asked him.  
  
“Lana, this is my-,” he paused and looked at you, “My friend, Brian. Brian, Lana.”  
  
“Hi. Whiskey. Top shelf. Neat.”  
  
“A man who knows what he wants,” she said as she poured. “I assume you’ll have the same?”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks.”   
  
“No problem, boys.”  
  
You handed her fifty bucks and told her to keep pouring. She assured you she’d keep an eye on you. When she walked away, you told Zeek, “She is way too beautiful to be a bartender.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were capable of appreciating a good woman, Boss Man.”  
  
“It’s painful, but I suffer through it,” you told him.  
  
“You think she’s beautiful now, you should see her when she’s bent over a kitchen table with her thong a little off center. Fucking work of art.”  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” you told him, and waved to Lana to come back and pour.   
  
As she refilled your glasses, she said, “I heard about that guy, Zeek. I’m sorry.” She put her hand on his arm forearm for a second, and Zeek smiled. “God, she wants me,” he mumbled to you when she’d walked away again. She left the bottle on the bar.  
  
……  
  
The place wasn’t very busy, but it was a Tuesday before four o’clock, so that wasn’t out of the ordinary. You decided you’d take the opportunity to probe Zeek a little, regardless of how sexual that sounded. When Roseanne Cash’s _Seven Year Ache_ began to play, you wondered what kind of New York City bar would play such a country staple. But cowboys often seemed to have unrequited love cornered, and it might have been the song or maybe just a nosy hunch that made you lean over and ask Zeek, “So, how long have you loved her?”  
  
“I said I fucked her, not that I loved her.”  
  
“I’m not talking about the bartender.”  
  
……  
  
Zeek looked at you like you were a very smart asshole, “Since before I unknowingly partook of your piece of ass.”  
  
“That’s a long time to carry a torch.”  
  
“That the voice of experience talking?”  
  
……  
  
You laughed and filled his glass before refilling yours, “No. It’s the voice of angst talking.”  
  
“Well, tell it to shut the fuck up.”  
  
“Justin said the last time he saw you was at her wedding. That you crashed it. Last ditch effort?”  
  
Zeek shook his head, “Yeah, last ditch effort. It was either carry her off into the sunset or fuck your wife in a linen closet. One guess.”  
  
“The closet was closer?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, resigned to his fate, “The closet was closer.” He pulled a bowl of pretzels in front of him, “And, ironically, he was taken, too.” You pulled your lighter out of your pocket and lit it—your very tiny torch. “And all these years, I just thought you liked to smoke,” he said.  
  
“Touche.”  
  
……  
  
“Well, since we’re being nosy, can I ask you something, Boss Man?”  
  
“Yes, if you stop calling me that.”  
  
“Why in hell didn’t you come with Justin when he moved here? It’s not like you couldn’t afford it.”  
  
“I could afford to wait,” you told him.  
  
“Because, just between you and me, you took a big risk doing that. A big risk.”  
  
“Some sacrifices are merely investments in disguise,” you said.  
  
“You never do anything by accident, do you, Kinney?”  
  
“Not if I can help it.”  
  
……  
  
The conversation turned from Harper to Alan, to how Zeek met him, to how he took care of him whenever he could. “Sometimes you don’t realize how much someone means to you until they’re yanked off the earth,” he said.  
  
“Believe me, I know.”  
  
“Harper won’t tell me their names, but I’ll find out.”  
  
“She knows you well.”  
  
“That’s the main thing I can’t stand about women. No matter what you do, they’re always two steps ahead of you.”  
  
“That’s why I keep any and all contact with them very structured,” you told him.  
  
Zeek laughed, pointing a broken pretzel at you, “The only reason that works for you is because you don’t like pussy. If you did, you’d be so fucking hosed. So. Fucking. Hosed.”  
  
“You’re probably right. You ready to head back?”  
  
The sun was in your eyes for the walk back. The two of you decided to go a different way; Zeek seemed to want to take his time, to walk a while in the city he missed. You passed the coffee shop that you’d met Justin in all those years ago and thought about the look on his face when you’d walked in, how tentative he felt when you kissed him for the first time in that hotel room, how even though it was sweltering hot that day, you could feel him warming in your arms. When you walked by the actual hotel a block later, you just smiled. Zeek paid no attention to your reverie; the events of the day had made him angrier than you’d ever seen him.   
  
*******************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _give the devil his due_   
  
“Well, what do you know?” Jonathon said, walking into the kitchen. “The devil does wear Prada. And he wears it well—complete with a wedding ring.”   
  
(You’d relocated to the kitchen with an overwhelming urge to chop celery after you’d heard a snippet of Justin’s conversation with Harper:  
  
”So, tell me. Is he as good in bed as he looks?”  
  
Justin laughed, ”You know those prank candles people get? The ones that never go out, no matter how hard you blow?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That’s what he’s like in bed.”  
  
“You bitch.”)  
  
“Yeah, who knew Prada made fine jewelry?” you replied.  
  
“I have to hand it to you, Dan. You’ve been nothing but gracious since the moment you’ve met him. Your restraint and good manners exemplify extraordinary integrity.”  
  
“Integrity,’” you repeated. “This coming from a guy who’s fucking a priest.” It was the ultimate satisfaction for him—fucking a man who needed extensive analysis after every orgasm. Leave it to Jon to find the trap door to heaven.  
  
“Shit, I’ve got to call him. Thanks for reminding me.” He cued his cell phone, backing out of one of the kitchen’s swinging doors.  
  
“Ouch.”  
  
“Oh, god, Amelia. I’m so sorry.”  
  
She looked at you to see if she needed to cry, and then decided against it—as if Jon wasn’t worth it—passing by him and walking into the kitchen. “I’m hungry, Dr. Car-ride.”  
  
You put your knife down and washed your hands, “Did you have a good nap?”  
  
“Yep.” Her hair definitely had. It was everywhere. You picked her up and took her into the downstairs bathroom where she stood on a stool and watched in the mirror as you brushed it.  
  
“There you go, Sleeping Beauty. Much better.”  
  
She led you back into the kitchen where she announced, “It’s time for macaronis and chocolate milk.”  
  
“That’s what you had for lunch. It’s time for graham crackers.”  
  
“And chocolate milk,” she added as she hoisted herself up into one of your kitchen chairs. You slid a phone book underneath her so you could see her over the table. She ate her snack, and Jonathon wandered back in the kitchen, his dial-a-prayer apparently over. He sat down at the table next to her, and she asked him, her mouth full of cracker, “Dr. Jon, where is Brime Kinney?”  
  
He busted out laughing.  
  
*******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _that’s what little girls are made of_   
  
Zeek suggested and you concurred that the two of you should stop by a liquor store on the way home, and when you walked back through Daniel’s doorway, you were laden with Tequila, Vodka, and Johnnie Walker Gold—the three wise men. Daniel laughed as you stocked his liquor cabinet and told him, “You know what they say-- when life gives you lemons, get a bottle of Tequila and some salt.”  
  
Dinner was ready about an hour later, and it was then that Justin emerged from the studio. The table was filled with a pan of lasagna, a huge bowl of salad, and a basket of bread. You offered to play bartender, catering to Harper’s request, “Just give me something that will make me forget my name.” You found just enough rum and gin to make her and Justin Long Island Ice Teas. Harper’s was decidedly weaker.  
  
Amelia was perched at the head of the table, and when all seven of you finally sat down, she asked, “Is this my birthday party?”  
  
“No, ‘Melia,” Harper replied. “This is April and your birthday is in May. You have one more month.”  
  
“Yeah, and then I’ll be this many,” she said, trying to make three of her fingers cooperate, and when they wouldn’t, “It won’t work.”  
  
“What do you want for you birthday, Amelia?” Sam asked.  
  
She had both of her hands wrapped around her glass of milk when she smiled at you and answered her father, “Brime Kinney.”   
  
(Justin would remark later that week--when he was wearing only a toothbrush--that Amelia’s affection for you bordered on the pathological. You reminded him, “This coming from a man who has a shrine of glass dildos that bear an uncanny resemblance to my cock.”)  
  
The meal felt like a long-awaited party, and there was more hilarity and laughter than you expected after the day’s tragedies. That would change once the alcohol took effect and Amelia was tucked into bed. You ended up in Daniel’s guest bedroom with Justin as you waited for Amelia to emerge from the bathroom with Sam, bathed and in her pajamas. There’d been a potent temper tantrum about half an earlier, and a truce was called when Sam told her, “Once you take your bath, they’ll come up.” Sam typically told her a story when he tucked her in each night—an original tale in which Amelia naturally had a starring role. She began the story for him, “Once upon a time.” It unraveled from there into the demented tale of three men and little lady.  
  
You, of course, were Prince Charming.  
  
Justin was the dog.  
  
*******************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _even heroes have the right to bleed_   
  
Arriving back at your home earlier that day, you did the first thing you always do when you come home—check your messages. There was one from your secretary offering condolences and five from various city reporters anxious to get the story—to talk to you about (as message number four put it), “The role you may have played in Alan Harper’s death.” The reporter had done his research, the cops who beat Alan were the cops you’d testified against in a police brutality case a couple of years ago. They’d ultimately been acquitted but were still suspended for six months to undergo anger management counseling. When they completed the training and rejoined the force, they’d only been cops for eighteen months.   
  
You were quiet at dinner, feeling that if you didn’t inform anyone about this, you could ignore it. But your cryptic behavior wouldn’t get past Jonathon. He’d assumed you were channeling your grief, but you told him the truth while you were loading the dishwasher, “This is my fault. Those cops, they were punishing me.”  
  
“You don’t know that,” he said. “You’re assuming.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” you told him. “It’s no coincidence that those particular cops killed Alan. I made him an easy target.”  
  
*******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _you don’t tug on Superman’s cape_   
  
Harper didn’t last long after dinner; she and Sam adjourned, returning to her studio where he pulled out the sofa bed and helped her get comfortable. She was asleep almost instantly; Sam closed the door behind him and came back downstairs. “Is she okay?” Justin asked. “She just doesn’t feel good,” he replied as he gathered his coat and then directed his attention to Daniel, “I’m going home real quick to get our things for tomorrow. Can you listen out for her?” “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours. I don’t want her to spend the night alone.” With all of the XX chromosomes slumbering and Sam heading back home, the five of you sat in Daniel’s living room and began to talk more frankly about Alan’s death. Daniel had bleached the sidewalk that morning before coming back to the hospital, and he choked up when he spoke about finding him, the guilt he felt feeling all too familiar. Jonathon spoke about the extent of his injuries, how he never expected him to die on the table. “He had one of the best surgeons I know.” Justin had remained fairly quiet through the entire conversation, wide awake and taking it all in, his arms almost always crossed in front of him. Your arm was around him on the sofa, and you tapped him on his far shoulder, causing him to turn and look at you, “What?” “I’m going outside to smoke,” you told him. You didn’t tell him you felt like throwing up.  
  
It was finally dark when you stepped outside Daniel’s front door, the darkness not at odds with how you felt at that moment. You lit up and took a long drag, pacing back and forth in front of the doctor’s steps. It felt good to be alone for a few minutes. When you passed by the spot that Daniel had tried to erase from the sidewalk, your emotions got the best of you. Alan had been beaten and tossed into the bushes that you were vomiting right next to.   
  
A few minutes later, and the front door opened. You hoped it wasn’t Justin, and the hope paid off. It was Zeek, tapping a pack of cigarettes as he walked down the steps. He said nothing at first, just lit up as well, walking off his nervous energy. “I can’t sit in there and listen to that and be all fucking civilized,” he told you. “I don’t talk about my feelings,” he added, “I act on them.”  
  
“Then you’re better off out here,” you told him.  
  
It was at that moment that a man emerged from a dark doorway across the street and began to approach the two of you. He was filthy and looked ‘mildly psychotic’ (if there is such a thing)—psychotic and driven. He spoke before he’d crossed all the way over, “You’re Zeek, aren’t you?” he asked.   
  
“Stitch?” Zeek responded.  
  
“Yeah, long time no see.”  
  
There was a light breeze that evening, carrying his sour smell right to you. You turned the other way, vowing to yourself not to throw up again. You took a deep breath and turned around again, just as Zeek was offering him a cigarette, which he took. “What I read in the paper, it’s true?” he asked Zeek. “They beat him up and killed him?”  
  
“Yeah, man.” Stitch looked heartbroken for a few seconds, and then gathered his composure as Zeek continued, “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”  
  
“I want to come to the funeral,” he told Zeek, as if he expected to be refused. “When is it?”  
  
“Don’t know yet,” Zeek told him. Stitch seemed agitated at that answer; Zeek rephrased, “But I’ll let you know. You’ll be there. Don’t worry.”  
  
You wondered how that would work, how you call a homeless guy, but you kept quiet. Stitch finished his cigarette, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and producing a few pieces of rolled paper. He unrolled them and showed Zeek the first one, “I need to find that guy that drew this,” he told you. Your curiosity go the better of you and you stepped forward as Zeek replied, “That would be Justin.” “Is he here?” Stitch wanted to know. Zeek glanced at you very quickly, as if trying to ascertain what answer you’d approve of and said nothing. You walked closer to Stitch and introduced yourself, “Name’s Brian,” you told him. “Can I see that?” Zeek nodded, and Stitch reluctantly handed you the papers.   
  
Stitch stepped back a few feet, and Zeek stepped forward, looking at them with you. The first one, the one on the inside of the roll, was a sketch of Harper with her arms around what had to be Alan. Zeek confirmed your thoughts, “That’s Alan. I remember when Justin drew that. He did a much larger version that sold at some show.” The word ‘SECURITY’ was in the bottom right corner of the sketch, sitting on top of Justin’s initials. You handed it to Zeek to reveal the next one. “That’s his niece, isn’t it?” Stitch asked, as a sketch of a younger Amelia stared back at you. Justin had captured her perfectly—her innocence masking her perceptiveness. Stitch had lit another cigarette by this time and was standing a few feet away as if granting you some sort of respect as you looked at Justin’s work. The third and final sketch felt completely different that its predecessors. It was Justin standing over a grave site, the shadow looming behind him larger than the headstone in the foreground. You recognized it immediately—Chris Hobb’s final resting place.  
  
*******************  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _if a picture paints a thousand words_   
  
Minutes later, Justin joined the three of you on the sidewalk. “You’re Stitch, aren’t you?” he asked.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Alan talked about you a lot.” Stitch looked almost apologetic. “He had a lot of respect for you,” Justin continued. Stitch smiled.  
  
Justin looked through the sketches in the same order that you had, a perplexed look on his face. When he got to the last one—the sketch of the gravesite—he rolled them back up and handed them back to Stitch, asking, “Where did you get these?”  
  
“They were Alan’s.” Stitch began to respond to the uncomfortable look on Justin’s face, “He had a lot of respect for you,” he continued. “That’s why I came to see you.”  
  
Justin sat down on the front steps and asked you for a cigarette. You lit it for him and then sat down beside him. Zeek leaned against the wrought iron railing; Stitch had the floor: “Those sketches I brought, Alan and I recreated them in the tunnels. This one is on the wall in my—our—room. The one of the little girl, we painted it in an area underground where most of the women live. The last one, the cemetery one, it’s at the entrance of one of the main, hidden tunnels.”  
  
“Why?,” Justin asked. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“It’s a tribute, I guess. He liked your work, and he liked you.” Justin smiled. “And he was an artist, too. You should’ve seen what he could do with a can of spray paint.”  
  
“Does Harper even know this?” he asked.  
  
“His sister?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No, don’t think he ever told her.”  
  
Justin offered to feed Stitch, offered to let him come inside, but he refused. Justin went inside anyway, returning with a paper plate full of lasagna and a cold beer just as Sam was stepping out of a taxi cab with an overnight bag on his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked as he came upon the four of you. Justin explained while Stitch ate; you’d never seen a man enjoy lasagna quite that much. “Can we see this stuff?” Sam asked. Stitch resisted at first, claming it wasn’t safe, that the areas were hard to get to, but then Zeek intervened, “It stays between us, Stitch. If Justin’s stuff is under the streets, he has a right to see it.” Stitch reluctantly agreed, and you got the feeling that he was trading access to the tunnels in return for access to the funeral. It would turn out to be another investment masquerading as a sacrifice.  
  
*******************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _you don't need a penny just to hang around,  
but if you've got a nickel, won't you lay your money down?_   
  
If the four of you were going to do this, it was going to be done your way. Stitch had dissolved back into the shadows he’d come from, and now there were six of you sitting at Daniel’s kitchen table. You had their attention. You were in your element—smack in the planning stages of a task that would require your expertise. You spoke to Sam first because you knew he was chomping at the bit to explore the tunnels; he’d been trying unsuccessfully for years. There was no way to go down there safely without the blessing of the tunnel dwellers themselves. “I know you think this is your big break ‘cause you want to make your movie—"  
  
“Documentary,” he corrected you.  
  
“Whatever. If you flash any of your fancy camera equipment down there without Stitch’s okay, you can kiss it good-bye. They live down there for a reason; they don’t want publicity.”  
  
Sam countered, “I’ll just bring it, just in case. It’s small. No one has to see it.” Everyone looked at you again as that matter was settled, so you continued, “All right, doc, I’m assuming you don’t want in on this adventure?” Jonathon laughed, “I don’t think I can see Daniel traipsing through sewage.” Daniel rolled his eyes at his friend and confirmed your thoughts, “No, we’ll stay up here. Probably safer that way.”  
  
“Okay,” you continued, “We need to bring some stuff: Flashlights, batteries, face masks, water, and probably some saline.”  
  
“Saline?” Kinney asked.  
  
“Your eyes are gonna burn, Boss Man. It’s wall to wall urine down there. We’ll meet at eight a.m. outside the terminal on 103rd.”  
  
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Justin asked.  
  
“To get to the gravesite painting, it’s twenty minutes down if you know where you’re going. I figure we’ll go for that one first, and then try to find the others if we can take it.” Everyone nodded. The plans were set. “And there’s one more thing we need,” you added, looking right at Kinney.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“Cash. We’re going to be paying a lot of people off—toll money.”  
  
Justin looked at Brian as if worried he might refuse, but you knew he wouldn’t. He rarely passed up an opportunity to flex his wallet. “Not a problem.”  
  
“Well, okay,” you said, suddenly uncomfortable with the amount of power you’d been afforded in that fifteen minutes. “Then I guess we’re all done.”  
  
The four of you—you, Brian, Justin, and Jon—said your goodbyes. Sam headed upstairs to join Harper in the studio. Daniel waved goodbye before closing his front door. You heard him lock it—chain and all. Kinney hailed a cab, and he and Justin disappeared, heading back to their hotel. Jonathon took the subway home, and you walked to the restaurant. It was a nice, clear night. Your parents were closing up when you got there, but they waited with the door open when they saw you coming.   
  
Your mother hugged you, told you she missed you; your father slapped you on the back. You helped them turn off all the lights and empty the cash register. As you suspected, the gun your father kept was still underneath it. “I need to borrow this, Pop,” you told him when your mother was out of earshot. “You’re in trouble?” he asked. “No. Everything’s fine.”  
  
Borrowing your father’s gun with only trust for collateral—it was something only you could do. That privilege would've never been extended to your little brother.  
  
*******************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _I need you tonight_   
  
You didn’t realize how tired you were until the door of your suite clicked open, and the two of you walked into the dimly lit room. The bed had been turned down, a small lamp was on with a handwritten note laying beside it, _Mr. Kinney, Please let us know if there’s anything you require._  
  
“I require a shower,” you told Justin after he read it. “Care to join me?”  
  
He shook his head, “No, I just want to go to sleep.” He began pulling his shirt over his head, and you waited a second to see if he was going to change his mind. When he didn’t, you stood under a very hot shower by yourself, letting the steam clear your head. You dried off, fastening the towel around you and set up your laptop on the small table by the window. When the blue light from the screen was staring back at you, you turned the small lamp off so Justin could sleep.  
  
You checked your email (a picture of Gus in his new soccer uniform), your voicemail (a message from Nate, too late to call him back), and then shut it down. When the room went dark, you heard Justin, “Coming to bed?”  
  
“I thought you were asleep.”  
  
“I wish I was.”  
  
You slid into bed beside him, your damp, white towel sliding off the chair you’d thrown it on, seconds from gracing the floor.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Red Hot Chili Pepper's _Under the Bridge_ , nursery rhymes, Blues Traveler’s _Run Around_ , Train’s _Drops of Jupiter_ , Charlie Daniel’s Band _Devil Went Down to Georgia_ , Five for Fighting’s _Superman_ , Jim Croce’s _You Don’t Mess Around With Jim_ , Bread’s _If_ , Credence Clearwater Revival’s _Down on the Corner_ , and INXS’s _Need You Tonight_. Icon bases used in this chapter came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/). 


	32. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 29-Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/25/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 29-CATALYST**  
  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _I come to you so silent in the night_   
  
The decision to move your main residence to the house in West Virginia all those years ago had been an easy one. It was the adjustment that was difficult. To sleep in the still of the country when you were used to the sounds of city streets and elevators and random men roaming around the loft was a challenge. And that night at the hotel, the bustle of the city was a valiant, yet hopeless, panacea, trying to quell the restlessness inside you.  
  
It was one of those nights. One of those nights where it's not too hot and not to cold and not too humid, and if you'd been at home, the windows in your bedroom would've probably been wide open. But there were no windows to open at The Regency, no over-bearing refrigerator to interrogate you when you snuck downstairs for a midnight snack. There was just you and Justin in a well-ridden, mass-produced, king sized bed trying to negotiate with the Sandman. And he was driving a very hard bargain.  
  
You should've been tired after the day's events, after the gluttonous amounts of food and drink, but the prospect of going underground the next day had thrown a wrench into every rhythm your bodies knew. When you'd gotten into bed minutes before, he'd moved to be closer to you, facing you, his head resting on your arm. As he reached out, draping his arm over your hip, the sounds of the street began to fade into the background.  
  
“I can’t sleep,” he whispered, as if he was afraid to admit it even to himself, his hand pressed against your chest.  
  
“You will,” you said, your fingers in his hair.   
  
Perhaps your words convinced him because his eyes closed when you kissed him. It wasn’t a prelude to anything at first, a tenuous connection void of expectation. It lasted longer than you expected; leaving you trying to taste an ending that was nowhere to be found.   
  
You moved his hand, pushing it slowly down your stomach, moaning when he touched you, urging him to keep going. You worked his grip, letting it take you right to the edge, and then coated the side of his face with the steam behind your voice, “Roll over.” He did, and you kissed his shoulder blades, pressing yourself between his legs, watching his fingers disappear over the edge of the mattress.  
  
You were inside him soon enough, your fingers curling over his as he held on. It was a means to an end, a way to exploit a warm, dark moment, a way to smell what you wanted to smell, feel what you wanted to feel. You’d done this more than once—fucked him vigorously in a New York hotel room. And just like always, the harder you fucked him--the harder he wanted it--the more you were convinced of his fragility.  
  
********************  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _he drowns in his dreams_   
  
_The tunnel went on and on and got smaller and smaller and smaller until it ended in a flash of light. And there you were, with him, tangled in sheets you’d never known. And he was there, greedy and needy, just like you wanted him, a layer of sweat covered his body just from waiting for you. “It took me forever to get here,” you told him. And he didn’t ask why and you didn’t know why. And you were out of breath from the running or the fucking, you weren’t sure, just knew that you couldn’t breathe. But you could smell him; you’d been craving that smell. It’s what pulled you through the tunnel, the scent he gave off when he wanted you. You wanted to roll in it like it was mud, cake the sinful aroma all over you. The things you were going to do to him. His passion for you, it terrified you, unleashed something feral inside you. Something that meant you’d never be satisfied with this, he’d never be satisfied with this. Never, until he’d teased this out of you and made you use it, consequences be damned—  
  
“Do you always fuck him like that?”  
  
The man in the corner, with his legs crossed, with a legal pad on his knee, he was watching you, and only you. Your eyes spun quickly around the room. You were on top of Justin, both of your heads at the foot of the bed. He was begging you not to stop because you’d stopped, and he wanted more, and you weren’t listening to him—  
  
“It’s none of your business,” you told the observer, his pen moving across the paper. He’d stopped looking at you, as if he’d seen all he needed to see.   
  
“None of my business?”  
  
“Don’t repeat what I say.”  
  
“You don’t think it bears repeating?”  
  
Justin’s energy was fading fast, as fast as your heart was pounding, “Get out. I need to be alone with him.”  
  
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” That was a lie, but the truth followed, “You’re in my bed.”_  
  
********************  
 **JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _heaven can wait_   
  
Father Richard Donnelly was a man of few words in bed; he saved them for Sunday. The first time you fucked him, sometime in late January 2011, you christened him ‘Father Dick.’ He didn’t like the nickname, so it stuck. You didn’t exactly like the fact that you were attracted to a man of the cloth, so the two of you fucked at least three nights a week. Tuesday was the most common night because the memory of the previous Sunday’s sermon had faded and the next Sunday’s had yet to form. You were often in the congregation those Sundays, sitting in the very back, listening to him warn his parishioners of the very sins he’d just committed. Sometimes Daniel would accompany you, just so he could shame you with the Lord’s blessing.   
  
“You should be giving that holier-than-thou look to him, not me,” you told him. “I’m not the one who took a vow of celibacy.”  
  
“You’re aiding and abetting,” Daniel retorted. “That’s just as bad.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“It’s sad really,” you said to Dan one Sunday, “I know he’ll never love me like he loves Jesus.”  
  
“Don’t be so sure. Jesus probably never made him come.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
It was a relationship of convenience, but you couldn’t exactly figure out which one. And it disturbed you that you felt closer to God when you were in his ass, so you’d usually say a little prayer into his upper back, _”Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, and I’m about to do it again.”_ God never answered you, leaving you feeling a little slighted. The least he could do was come down and strike you with a lightning bolt or something, instead of waiting for the delicious moment when he could turn you away from the pearly gates with a flourish of catty angels behind him. When you told Daniel about this train of thought, he scolded you, “Jesus and Zeus are not the same person, okay? If you want to get struck by lightning, you’re fucking the wrong flock.”  
  
……  
  
“So, what’s it like fucking a Catholic priest?” he asked one Sunday. (Daniel was always the guy on the high road rubber-necking a four-car pile-up. Then again, that was a prerequisite for practicing psychiatry.) “Is it ritualistic?”  
  
“We do kneel sometimes.” Daniel tried not to laugh, bowing his head as if he had an urgent, sudden need to pray. “We take turns.”  
  
“Who usually goes first?”  
  
“He does; he’s had more practice.”  
  
“And then you switch, and he puts his little wafer on your tongue?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“And when it’s all over, he begs for forgiveness?”  
  
“I make him beg. He likes it.” (Daniel thought you were kidding; you weren’t.)  
  
……  
  
“Does he have a shrink?” Daniel asked.  
  
“Not that I know of.”  
  
Daniel sighed and then looked at you a little too innocently, “Does he want one?”  
  
You looked him straight in the face and whispered, “I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but you’re too uptight, even for a priest.”  
  
“Christ, I need therapy.”  
  
They taught you in med school that a patient’s psychiatric breakthrough could occur at any moment, in or out of session. That Sunday you realized it was the gospel truth.  
  
……  
  
During your relationship with Father Dick, he’d never consented to wearing his collar in bed. You secretly wanted him to, but didn’t want to have to explain your recent fetish for white cardboard. But that night, when you came home from Dan’s, Father Dick was in your bed sound asleep. There was an open Bible face down his chest. He’d fallen asleep reading…and waiting for you.  
  
“Sorry, I’m late,” you told him after you’d undressed and gotten into bed.   
  
He mumbled something like, ‘It’s okay,’ and you slid the Bible out from underneath his hands, closed it and laid it on the night stand.  
  
And then, as you started to get comfortable for the night, you realized he wasn’t wearing any pants…  
  
You reviewed your options and then proceeded with an uncharacteristic caution, expecting to be pushed away, and when you weren’t you smiled down at your sleepy, good fortune and fucked the shit out of his flawed duplicity. He came on his very black, tunnel-collared, clergy shirt that you secretly hoped the two of you could burn afterwards, maybe even chant something.  
  
It wasn’t until you were lying beside him again that you heard him laughing in the darkness. “What’s so funny?” you asked.  
  
“Turn the light on.”  
  
You did, and as your eyes adjusted, you realized what was so funny. It was one of _your_ black shirts he was wearing, and the collar was the spine from one of the fifty-some binders given to you at every pharmaceutical convention you attended. Sometimes Father Dick really was a dick.  
  
And then sometimes he wasn’t. When you told him why you were late, he offered you his church for Alan’s funeral.   
  
“The place is going to be packed,” you warned him, “Alan’s friends will be there in droves.”  
  
“We’re all God’s children, Jon.”  
  
“Even the ones that don’t bathe?” you asked.  
  
“ _Especially_ the ones that don’t bathe.”  
  
How Father Dick could emerge as the righteous one after he’d double-crossed you in your own bed…  
  
Double crossed?  
  
Maybe they cancel each other out?  
  
********************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _if you can’t be with the one you love,  
love the one you’re with_   
  
Lana’s apartment in the city was more than she could afford on a bartender’s salary, but she made up for that with alimony from a very intense, three year marriage to one of those Wall Street types. The more successful he became, the less interested Lana became in being a wife; she could see where it was going—a life of conformation to a society she despised. She was much happier working at the bar where she met him, although, post-divorce, he made a point never to stop by. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see you standing outside her building when her shift was over.  
  
She invited you up, offered you a drink, and you took it, following her into her bedroom, lying on her bed as she undressed. She was wearing a red bra under her black t-shirt which she tossed on the floor. (Lana’s supposed penchant for a blue collar life never extended to her lingerie.) “Just a minute,” she told you, disappearing into the bathroom, doing whatever it is women always do in the bathroom before you fuck them. You didn’t mind; the wait was always worth it.  
  
When she closed the door, you took your father’s pistol out of your pants and laid it in her nightstand drawer, took off your shirt, and relaxed on her bed, realizing how tired you really were. Knowing that Lana would emerge in red panties that matched her bra reminded you of the game you and Justin had played to pass time during your flight— _Hot or Not?_ It basically consisted of the two of you flipping through the latest issue of _Entertainment Weekly_ , pointing to random celebrities and declaring them one or the other. About halfway through the magazine, Kinney began to clear his throat repeatedly until Justin validated him, “You know you’re hot. Stop that.”  
  
“Well,” he said, “It never hurts to be reminded.”  
  
“I’ll remind you later tonight when I fu—" Kinney cut him off with an admonishing eyebrow. You were glad. You didn’t need that image in your head.  
  
……  
  
Lana liked to fuck with the lights on. You were grinning from ear to zipper when she opened the bathroom door, her long, brown hair—longer than you’d ever seen it-- falling over her shoulders. She laid beside you on the bed, unbuttoning your jeans as you kissed her in some sort of fast-forward mode that quickly resulted in your body on top of hers. When you (expertly) unhooked the front snap on her bra, she let her head hit the pillow, the red straps still hanging from her shoulders. You felt her fingers in your hair as you moved down her body, running your finger inside the fabric between her legs before pulling them off and settling between her thighs. She was wet, just like always, and came when you went down on her—just like always.   
  
A fuck soon followed, a desperate ferocity behind it, and she came again when you did. There was no objection when you re-sheathed and told her to turn over. Lana’s backdoor was always wide open.  
  
……  
  
Afterwards, she indulged you again, holding you as you rested on top of her. She knew this was what you really wanted, that you were craving the arms of a woman. Truth be told, you’d survived every other emotional low in your life by drowning yourself in women who expected you to fuck the shit out of them and then found it in their hearts (and between their legs) to let you wallow in your sorrow.   
  
……  
  
“Tell me about your friend,” she said quietly.   
  
********************  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _I laid a divorcee in New York City_   
  
_Wednesday, April 6, 2011_  
  
When you woke up that morning, Lana was gone. She left a note on her pillow, _Went to get coffee. Back soon._ Lana was never one for sleeping in. You found your cell phone and called Rube. He answered on the first ring; you knew he would. It was Wednesday; his work week was starting again. “Good morning, little buddy.”  
  
" _Skipper.”_  
  
“How’s life?”  
  
“ _The same. You?”_   
  
“Got a big day today.”  
  
The Sunday before you left for the city, you’d had your first argument ever with Rube over his treasured Ms. Pac-Man video game. He’d decided that the small loft in his bedroom should be an arcade and just assumed that you’d be able to drag some huge, mother fucking, Eighties relic up a spiral staircase. When you told him that there was no way that was going to happen, that, contrary to popular belief, you weren’t the Incredible Hulk, he began to throw out idea after idea about how you could hoist it up there and just clear the railing. It took you an hour to convince him that there was no fucking way you were doing that. “We’ll bust the game and your fucking railing doing that. It’s going in the goddamn basement.” He gave you the silent treatment for the next hour, lying on his couch, watching _Gilligan’s Island_ , a _TV Land_ marathon. At three o’clock that afternoon, the episode where Gilligan is hunted for sport broke his melancholy mood. He apologized to you for being an ass and then said, “I hope the next one is when Gilligan falls out of the hammock. That one’s my favorite.” (You began to wonder if perhaps Rube was under the weather because Gilligan falls out of the hammock in every episode…)  
  
“I think Mary Ann’s hot,” you told him instead. He appeared deeply offended, as if sexualizing one of his childhood idols had never even occurred to him. You spared him your childhood fantasy of a three-way with Ginger and The Professor—in a hammock.  
  
And at five o’clock that Wednesday morning, he listened as you told him your plans, how you were escorting Justin, Brian, and Sam into the underworld, how Stitch would be your guide.   
  
“ _This sounds like a completely insane idea, so I’ll just assume you know what you’re doing.”_  
  
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, too.” He laughed. You heard the front door open, close again, and then the sounds of Lana crinkling a paper bag in the kitchen. “Gotta go. Need to stuff a muffin one more time before I hit the road.”  
  
“ _May the force be with you.”_  
  
“And so with you, and don’t say shit to my brother about this. He’ll flip the fuck out.”  
  
 _”Roger Dodger.”_  
  
……  
  
Lana returned to the bedroom, wearing nothing but a tight black t-shirt and blue jeans, her expensive underwear still somewhere under the sheets. Her hair was pulled up, and she handed you your coffee. It was exactly what you wanted. That was the nice thing about Lana, she never forgot anything you preferred. “When do you have to go?” she asked. You glanced at the clock before you answered, “I need to hit the pavement by seven thirty.”  
  
She looked at the clock as she sipped her coffee, “Two hours.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You sleep good last night?” she asked.  
  
“Like a baby.”  
  
She smiled, sat her coffee on the small table beside her bed, and began to undress, “I take it you don’t want to go back to sleep?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
You pulled the rubber band out of her hair once she was underneath you and tossed it on the floor. Two hours later, at ten after seven, your bodies had switched positions. Her hair smelled so good, a scent you could identify only as ‘Lana.’ You glanced at the clock again, two minutes had passed. “I have to go.” She slid off of you, and when you emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered, she laughed at the shirt you had on:  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
  
She microwaved your stone cold coffee for you, and when your hand was on the door, she said, “Guess I’ll see you in a few years.”   
  
You smiled, “Probably a safe bet.”  
  
……  
  
The elevator was opening to the lobby when you realized you’d forgotten something. You rode right back up, and when you knocked on her door, she opened it instantly, your father’s pistol dangling from her fingers, “Forget something?”  
  
********************  
 **NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _they paved paradise and put up a parking lot_   
  
You weren’t supposed to be sitting in the dining room of The Rockford at six fifteen that morning. You were supposed to be on your way to the airport to catch yet another plane to Chicago. But you were beginning to tire of the weekly travel and preferred to work on the New Hampshire end of the Brown Athletics’s plant relocation. You were only needed in the Windy City to keep up appearances, and, as your lawyers put it, ‘to make it look like you care about this city and the people who made Brown Athletics what it is today.’ You did care about them, but you cared about yourself more, and, when you were being completely honest, you cared more about New Hampshire, too. The state knew they were getting the plant—under conditions that they kept that fact confidential for the time being. It hadn’t been a hard compromise to make; New Hampshire needed the industry.  
  
So when you saw Sarah walking down The Rockford’s main staircase, still in her yoga wear, you weren’t surprised at her reaction, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the airport.” She sat down at your table, and a waiter was instantly at her side. “Orange juice, fresh fruit, and an English muffin,” she rattled off without a moment’s hesitation. “You’ve been putting this trip off all week. What’s going on?”  
  
“I just don’t feel like going.” You stopped talking when a different waiter appeared with her breakfast, and when he left, you said, “I’d rather stay here; be with you.”  
  
“You’re sweet talking me so I won’t fuss at you about not going to work,” she said, as she sprayed butter on her English muffin.  
  
“Guilty.”  
  
“Well, keep going,” she told you, “I didn’t say it wasn’t working.”  
  
You stole a strawberry off of her plate.  
  
……  
  
“Brian called me back this morning,” you told her.  
  
“You called him last night, and he didn’t call you back until this morning?” She had an incredulous look on her face and a piece of cantaloupe speared on the end of her fork. “He’s losing his touch.”  
  
“He’s not working this week; he’s in New York.”  
  
“No doubt protecting Justin from all of those art vultures just dying to gobble him up.”  
  
“No, actually, a friend of Justin’s was killed.”  
  
“Oh god, and I’m sitting here being a smart ass.” She looked around the room as if to see if anyone had seen it besides you. “What happened?”  
  
You told her the story, the little that you knew, and explained that, “I didn’t talk to him for very long. He seemed like he was in a hurry.”  
  
“Where can we send flowers? We need to do something,” she asked.  
  
“We are. I’m playing and you’re singing at the funeral.”  
  
“We are?”  
  
“I offered.”  
  
She reached across the table and held your hand, “You’re a good man, Nate Rockford. You know that?”  
  
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”  
  
********************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _but my words like silent raindrops fell_   
  
Amelia’s job that morning was to find out what Harper wanted for breakfast and report back to you in the kitchen. She did return, but without the information you’d requested.  
  
“Mommy’s crying.”  
  
You sat Amelia in front of her favorite movie, _Finding Nemo_ , with a bowl of Cheerios, a sliced banana, and a spill-proof cup of orange juice.  
  
“I’m going to go upstairs for a while and talk to your Mom,” you told her. “If you need anything, just call me, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Harper’s baby monitor was in the kitchen; you turned it on, and then walked upstairs with a cup of coffee in each hand. Sam had been gone for fifteen minutes. You’d seen his face when he walked out the door and told him not to worry, that you’d take good care of them. He thanked you, closing the door quietly behind him.  
  
……  
  
At the top of the stairs, the door to the studio was partly open, the sun streaming bright through the windows. “Harper, can I come in?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
When you pushed the door open, you felt foolish to be carrying coffee; it was clearly the last thing she needed.  
  
********************  
 **SAM COLLINS’S POV**  
  
[](http://tinypic.com)  
 _the world has crumbled and you don't know why_   
  
Your marriage to Harper had always been tumultuous. You fought like you fucked—hard and often. You’d resigned yourself to this, telling yourself that there was no way two talented, ambitious, and artistic souls could coexist without the by-product of emotional confetti. You learned quickly that love was messy, and that marriage was about cleaning it up.  
  
You fell in love with Harper because your view of the world was as visual as hers, because she believed, as you did, that art was about sifting through truth and revealing it in time. You could read her mind most of the time, and it was always an intense collage searching for a frame. She could mirror your thoughts and feelings as well, and it was this that weighed on you that Wednesday morning. What was running through your head wasn’t fit for her to see.  
  
You tried to put the mirror away, to hide how you felt when you saw her doubled over in pain, when you realized what was happening, that the losses would just keep coming. You didn’t want her to know what it did to you to see her cry like that, to look at you as if you had an answer for the madness that your lives had so quickly become. Almost instantly, you began to lie to yourself, convincing yourself that this wouldn’t destroy her, that she was strong. But she saw the doubt on your face and cried like it was responsible for all of the pain she’d ever known.  
  
……  
  
The night before, when you’d gone home to get a few things, the answering machine was blinking. You paged through the caller ID and saw _Harper, James_ in the list and pushed play:  
  
" _Josie? It’s your Dad..”_  
  
It was odd to hear a voice from the grave…especially one that wasn’t dead.  
  
“ _…I don’t know what to say…Your brother…We should talk….decide…we could bury him next to your mother…”_  
  
……  
  
When you returned to Daniel’s that night and slipped into the sofa bed next to Harper, she woke briefly. Her body had curled into a fetal position, and she looked at you as if disoriented, her hair hanging in her face. “Are you hurting?” you asked her, tucking it behind her ear. She nodded. “You want me to get your pain pills?”   
  
“Please.”  
  
You found them in Daniel’s extra bathroom in the medicine cabinet and were careful walking back down the hallway so as not to wake Amelia. Harper had fallen asleep again by the time you returned, but her eyes opened a little when you said her name. “Here,” you said, putting two small pills in her hand and opening the bottle of the water next to your bed. She swallowed them and laid back down again, as if it was painful even for her head to touch the pillow. You couldn’t tell how much of her pain was physical; there seemed to be less and less distinction as the day had gone by. You undressed and slid under the blankets with her, her head laying on your chest. You wound her hair in your fingers and stared at the ceiling.  
  
……  
  
When morning broke, you showered, and when you turned off the water and pulled back the curtain, you had an audience you weren’t expecting.  
  
“Hi, Daddy.”  
  
Luckily, there was a towel close by. You let Amelia sit on the bathroom counter while you finished getting ready. She spent most of the time making faces at you in the mirror. Daniel emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later, and Amelia immediately abandoned you when she realized you weren’t the one making breakfast. You forgave her that day; you needed to tell Harper you’d be gone for awhile.  
  
She was sitting up in bed when you walked back into the studio; she looked cold, pale, and alone. You sat down beside her and held her hand; it felt like ice. “How do you feel?” you asked.  
  
“How do you think I feel?”  
  
You leaned in to kiss her on her cheek; you were successful but she didn’t reciprocate, as if it just took too much energy. “When I went home last night to get our stuff, there was a message from your Dad on the machine.”  
  
“What does he want?”  
  
You found yourself staring at your shoes as you answered her, “He didn’t really say much, just that he wants to know—" and then you stopped and tried to gather your thoughts, “He wants to know if you want to bury Alan next to your mother.”  
  
Harper looked as if someone had spit on her, “In fucking Georgia? Bury Alan in fucking Georgia?”  
  
“Honey—"  
  
“What the fuck? Alan wasn’t far enough away from him in the tunnels? Why don’t we just bury him in Bosnia?”  
  
“We’ll do whatever you want to do, Harper. It’s your call.”  
  
The hysteria that was building in her voice began to subside, “We’re not burying him. When they release his body, I’m going to have him cremated. And you can tell my fucking father that Alan’s spent enough time underground.”  
  
“You don’t have to make that decision right now—"  
  
“I’ve made it. It’s done. Period.” You knew Harper well enough by that time, not to push her. It always had disastrous consequences. And then she changed the subject, “Is Amelia up?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s downstairs with Daniel. She’s hungry.”  
  
“Imagine that.” Harper managed a tiny smile, and you reached out and hugged her. “You’re hugging me good-bye,” she said. “Where are you going?”  
  
……  
  
Your explanation of the day’s upcoming activities didn’t sit well with Harper at all. “You’ve all lost your fucking minds, Sam.”  
  
“Justin wants to go.”  
  
She threw her hands up in defeat, “Then go, but so help me god, if anything happens to you or any of them, I’m going to—" The tears rolling down her face, her voice choking up, it seemed to surprise her. She slapped them out of the way and tried to continue, “I can’t lose anything else. I can’t lose you—" And then she stopped, staring at her hands in her lap, “Just do whatever you want. Just go. I can’t…I just can’t—"  
  
……  
  
You thought seriously about canceling your plans, about not going, but you knew you had to go.   
  
……  
  
“Harper, listen to me. If it’s true, that Alan and Stitch have done this work under the street, I want to see it. I want you to see it. It’s the last thing of his we’ll ever know. He was the reason I met you. And your love for him, your concern for him, it’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. I owe him a lot.” She looked at you as if she wanted to believe every word that was coming out of your mouth, so you kept going, “I have my small camera. If I can manage to generate enough light, I’ll take pictures. You can see who he really was.”  
  
“Zeek’s going, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You listen to him, okay? He’s been down there before. He’s the only one of you who has a fucking clue about what you’re doing.”  
  
You agreed and kissed her good-bye.   
  
  
Lyrics taken from The Rolling Stones’s _Emotional Rescue_ , Kelly Clarkson’s _Beautiful Disaster_ , Michael Jackson's _Heaven Can Wait_ , Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s _Love the One You’re With_ , The Rolling Stones’s _Honkey Tonk Woman_ , Joni Mitchell’s _Big Yellow Taxi_ , Simon and Garfunkel’s _Sounds of Silence_ , and Firefall’s _Just Remember I Love You_. Icon bases used in this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/458768.html#)[**___sunnyskies**](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/458768.html#).


	33. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 30-Stewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/27/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 30-STEWARDS**  
  
**STITCH’S POV**  
  
  
_The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity._  
\--George Bernard Shaw  
  
Life beneath the streets of New York City wasn’t defined by the limitations of mortality, but rather by duty. And because of this, Alan’s impending aboveground send off seemed misguided. It was those below ground who were truly miserable. Alan had been a runner, a blessing to many who couldn’t bear to go upstairs anymore, whose eyes had over-adjusted to the darkness they inhabited. As you made your rounds that morning, informing those who cared that you were bringing some of Alan’s friends into their world, they were less than receptive. Even the prospect of going to Alan’s funeral swayed few of them; some were terrified to leave their homes, and others just didn’t believe you. They were more frantic about who would take Alan’s place, about who would graciously accept the orders of so many and not extort them in return. Some of them, you knew, weren’t actually grieving for Alan, but instead for themselves, grieving that once again they’d have to beg, borrow, and steal to get through the day. Each speech you made repeated a similar refrain, “He has friends and family upstairs. They need to say good-bye. Don’t let your fear deny them that.” Your status in the community was the only thing that calmed them; Alan was a runner, but you were the mayor by default. They had only two choices: acquiesce or overthrow you. It was easier to do the former, too time-consuming to do the latter.  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_A man who has never made a woman angry is a failure in life._  
\--Christopher Morley  
  
_Wednesday morning, April 6, 2011, 8:03 a.m._  
  
You made contact with Stitch at exactly eight o’clock. He was waiting for you against a chain link fence, a look on his face of resigned skepticism. “Where’s everybody?” he asked, his eyes flitting around you as if you were accompanied by invisible friends. “They’ll be here,” you replied, flipping your cell phone open as it rang. Stitch stepped away from you; it was Kinney. The banks didn’t open until nine a.m. he informed you; he and Justin would be there a little after. “Gonna be awhile, Stitch.” He nodded and agreed to return in an hour.  
  
You lit a cigarette and paced in front of the entrance to the subway, adjusting to the feeling of having your father’s Smith  & Wesson .38 strapped to the inside of your left leg, and that’s when it came to you: how to fix Ruben’s Ms. Pac Man crisis. You called him right away.  
  
“ _Man, I’m popular today,”_  
  
You got straight to the point, “We’ll take the railing down completely, hoist the game up there and then bolt it back down.”  
  
“ _Bitchen.”_  
  
“You’re doing your happy dance, aren’t you?”  
  
“ _Maybe.”_  
  
You’d seen Rube’s happy dance more than once, usually when he won an auction on Ebay for retired Pez Dispensers. (You referred to it as Rube’s ‘Safety Dance’ because there was no way in hell anyone would want to do the horizontal hokey pokey with him after they witnessed it.) And then you saw Sam coming up the stairs from the subway, “Gotta go, man.”  
  
“ _Rock the Casbah.”_  
  
“Get some help, man. Get some help.”  
  
…...  
  
“Greetings, Spielberg,” you said to Sam as he approached. “You look like shit.”  
  
He tossed his brown, leather backpack on the ground between his feet, “Thanks.”  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Harper; she’s not happy with me right now.”  
  
“Isn’t that a universal law of marriage or something?”  
  
“In my case, yes.” He leaned back against the fence Stitch had been employing minutes before and sighed, his arms crossed in front of him. “She doesn’t want us to do this.”  
  
“She doesn’t?” That surprised you.  
  
He didn’t answer you, pressing on with his train of thought instead, his eyes staring vacantly at the street in front of him, “I feel bad. I shouldn’t have left her this morning.”  
  
“Isn’t Doc there?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“She’ll be okay.”  
  
……  
  
He didn’t seem to believe you, so you continued, “She’s a woman; she needs to talk. He’s a shrink; he needs to listen. You know, it’s like symbolistics.”  
  
“I think you mean ‘sym _biosis._ ’”  
  
That was probably what you meant.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You changed the subject, tried to start again, “That little girl of yours, she’s something else, isn’t she? Looks just like Harper.”  
  
“She’s Harper’s MiniMe.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You were running out of things to say, “Daddy’s little girl, huh?”  
  
“If by ‘Daddy,’ you mean ‘Brime Kinney.’”  
  
……  
  
You looked down at the time on your phone.  
  
_Jesus Christ. Forty minutes to go…_  
  
……  
  
You spent some of that time wondering how Gabe was faring without you and without Kinney. You couldn’t imagine him surviving without an ass to kiss—or kick. But that thought made you remember that it you wouldn't have even been standing there that morning had it not been for your little brother...  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I have never let my schooling interfere with my education._  
\--Mark Twain  
  
_Monday, August 23, 2004  
2:15 pm_  
  
It was the last five in your pocket and you needed it to dry the wet load of clothes sitting on the washing machine in front of you. You were doing Gabe’s laundry that morning because you’d lost a bet with him the previous Friday. It wasn’t really a bet, actually, just one of those moments when you were helping him close the restaurant, and he was critiquing every little thing you did, so you asked him if he thought you were stupid or something, and he didn’t answer in that way that people don’t that always means _yes._ This pissed you off because it was a fucking Friday night and you could’ve been at any one of the city’s hot spots, seconds away from getting your dick sucked, but no, you’d volunteered to help him, and then you were regretting it. So he said he wanted to ask you a question, just one question, and if you got the answer right he would never, never again insinuate that you were more brawn than brains, and like the idiot he subsequently proved you to be, you agreed. He’d made a production out of it, too, pondering what he was going to ask while he turned every single chair upside down on its assigned table as you followed him with a mop. Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of thinking about it, he was ready.  
  
“Okay, you ready?” he asked.  
  
You were leaning on your mop handle by then, “Hit me, Einstein.”  
  
“Okay, one question and one question only, right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And this decides it once and for all, right?”  
  
“Yes, right. Just ask me the fucking question.” In all of the moments you’d endured waiting for him to come up with something, you’d been doing word problems in your head:  
  
_If Gabe Zirrolli rises at five thirty a.m. on a Monday morning and goes to bed at ten p.m. the same night, how many people can he suck up to by the end of day without getting chapped lips?_  
  
If it was a math question, you figured it might take you awhile, but you’d eventually get it right. Besides, there was nothing said about how _quickly_ you had to answer. You were prepared to use Gabe’s precious, leather-bound reservation list for scratch paper if necessary.  
  
He started unrolling his sleeves, a sign that he was finished with his manual labor for the evening, “Okay, the question is: which childhood musical coined the phrase ‘supercalifragiliciousexpialadocious?'”  
  
“That’s the best question you could come up with?” you asked.  
  
“Short notice,” Gabe conceded.  
  
……  
  
You knew the right answer; fuck, everybody knows the answer. So you decided to push it one step further, “If I get it right, you’ll stop treating me like an idiot?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“And do my laundry for a month?”  
  
“Absolutely,” and then he added, “But if you’re wrong, you’re doing my laundry a month, and that includes ironing my shirts or taking them to the cleaners.”  
  
“Done.” Starch was always Gabe’s drug of choice.  
  
“Okay, what’s the answer?”  
  
You were salivating over the prospect of him walking through your apartment, collecting your neglected, dirty underwear with a pointy little stick. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the one he’d lost up his ass when he’d come back to the city with a PhD in Elitism. “I hope you know I’m holding you to this ‘Cakes; you’re not gonna wiggle out of it.”  
  
“I’m aware. May I have your answer, please?”  
  
“Yes, you may,” you told him, clearing your throat, “The movie that made up that word you just said was… _The Wizard of Oz._ ”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
The smile on his face was classic Gabe Zirrolli.  
  
……  
  
If you only had a brain…  
  
*********************  
  
  
_A beauty is a woman you notice; a charmer is one who notices you._  
\--Adlai Stevenson  
  
Or courage…  
  
You would’ve settled for that the moment you looked up from Gabe’s laundry basket and saw her—the girl you and Reef rescued a few months ago from what you thought was the attack of a madman. Alan was practically screaming in Harper’s face that day, and she clarified the misunderstanding when you and Reef grabbed him. You apologized to both of them; Alan ran away; Harper sank against a wall, her face in her hands. Apparently, she’d told him that she’d been to see their father.  
  
Since that windy March day when you'd needlessly saved her, you’d seen her around now and again--in a liquor store buying Tequila, getting into a taxi cab on a rainy day, and once standing in line to see a movie. She was always alone.  
  
And that day at the laundromat, she was alone again--alone and broke. Her last dollar had disappeared into the detergent dispenser, and when it failed to deliver soap, she kicked the machine and barked at it, “Goddamnit!”  
  
She cursed under her breath all the way back to her clothes basket, walked out the door and slammed it on the ground next to her. When you saw her fishing for something in her purse and realized that it was a cigarette, you left Gabe’s over-priced, wet wardrobe on top of a machine and made it outside in time to offer,  
  
“Need a light?”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” she said, not recognizing who you were at first, “I have no fucking clue where my lighter is. This day seriously sucks.”  
  
You stood beside her smoking, trying to appear interested in the traffic or clouds or something while she continued, “This morning, I locked myself out of my own fucking studio, almost left my purse on the subway, and if I didn’t have this fucking cigarette, I’d probably be going postal right now.” You got the feeling that she was talking to the universe instead of you. But then she turned and looked at you, “I remember you.”  
  
“You do?” you asked.  
  
She blew her smoke away from you, “Of course, I do.” You couldn’t tell if she was happy about that. “Where’s your friend?”  
  
“Reef? The guy that was with me that day?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Probably at home getting seriously baked.”  
  
“God, I haven’t smoked decent pot in, like, three weeks.”  
  
……  
  
The opportunity was there; you had an in.  
  
……  
  
But instead of jumping on it, you heard yourself asking the question that had popped into your head ten minutes ago when you were desperately trying to think of something to say to her, “You need soap or something?” (Possibly one of the least memorable pick up lines in the twenty-first century.)  
  
“Yeah, I even forgot my fucking detergent. I just need to wipe today off the calendar.”  
  
“You can use some of mine.”  
  
Her cigarette out, she took you up on the offer. You followed her back inside, and she started laughing when you handed her a bottle of (Gabe’s) _Woolite_. “Tough guy like you uses _Woolite_?”  
  
“Only for my delicates.” And while she was still laughing at your jokes, you fed your last five into the nearest washer and said, “Clean clothes. On me.” As the water began to rush into the machine, she smiled at you, pulling her arms inside her shirt, and like the most amazing magic trick you’d ever seen, divesting herself of the bra she had on, pink straps sliding out of her sleeve. She threw it in, closed the lid of the washer, plopped her basket on top, and said, “Now, I have nothing to do for twenty minutes.”  
  
“Hungry?” Your family’s restaurants was a few blocks away, and it was early enough in the afternoon that Gabe wouldn’t be seating people. You could go in, comp her at late lunch, and be gone before he’d even set foot in the place.  
  
……  
  
A few hours later, you’d forgotten all about Gabe’s damp clothes festering at the laundromat in their wicker, plastic-lined basket most likely bought online at StuckUpYuppie.com because you were at your place reintroducing Harper to some very decent pot.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_She speaks eighteen languages and can’t say no in any of them._  
\--Dorothy Parker  
  
Fucking a guy is a full-on rush to the end zone, while fucking a woman is more like a kinky version of _Mother May I._ Harper was sitting cross-legged on your bed flipping through pictures from a trip you’d taken with some friends, and when she looked up to ask you who somebody was, you leaned forward, took a chance and kissed her. The photos slid off your bed, fanning on the floor; the kiss never stopped.  
  
She moaned when your hand slid underneath her shirt, no bra to stop you as you pushed her back on the bed, and all you could think was:  
  
_Go, go, go._  
  
……  
  
_Green light. Green light. Green. Light._  
  
……  
  
_Do not fuck this up._  
  
You were so busy bossing yourself around, that you were late noticing her pushing your hand down her stomach. When you popped the button on her jeans, she returned the favor. You were instantly grateful; your dick was in desperate need of some air. She was warm and wet, and her body seemed ready to bully you into fucking if you hadn’t been so inclined.  
  
_Jesus, she wants me._  
  
You’d fucked your share of horny woman, but this was far beyond that. She made you feel like the last doctor on earth who could cure what was ailing her. And you cured it several times over. She came when you fingered her—fast and hard; she came when you went down on her—a delicious, thundering ascent, and she came when you fucked her—loud, needy and final. Never had you fucked a guy and felt like such a god.  
  
Her orgasms were the icing on your favorite cake, and as the sun was starting to go down on that first hot night, she looked at you and then said the four little words that every man longs to hear at least once in his life:  
  
“Your name’s Zeek, right?”  
  
……  
  
Days passed, and then months, and it was always the same: if she was in a bad mood, she wanted to fuck; if she was angry, she wanted to fuck; if it was cloudy, she wanted to fuck; if they were having a huge sale at a store she’d never even set foot in…she wanted to fuck. You feared you might have to get a second job just to pay for all the rubbers. And you knew she was using you for sex, for physical contact; Harper had a way of sliding back and forth on that slope right in front of you. She never asked you for anything else which was probably why you stuck around. She wasn’t your girlfriend; you weren’t her boyfriend. You were just the guy who knew the exact physical address of her g-spot and gave her lots of free spaghetti.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_She wrapped herself in an enigma; there was no other way to keep warm._  
\--Karen Elizabeth Gordon  
  
There had never been any valid reason for Harper to like you, a fact your friends reminded you of on a daily basis when you’d ditch them to spend time at her studio--their opinion was that your days were numbered, just maybe not consecutively--but you found yourself drawn to the part of her that fancied herself an outcast. You knew she wasn’t; she gave off the completely opposite vibe, the contradiction igniting a potent attraction between you.  
  
Her ability to light a candle, dim a light, and burn something that made you feel both peaceful and impassioned at the same time left you spellbound most nights. (It never dawned on you to light a candle when you were fucking a guy, a practical reason prevailing: one of you would knock it over and burn the place to the ground.) She’d blow you until you were dizzy and then peel her jeans off to sit in your lap. Her long hair would tickle your face when she rode you, her efforts to keep it back failing just like you wanted them to. In those moments, you were lovers. The rest of the time, you were friends.  
  
……  
  
When Alan came around, you’d usually make yourself scarce. He was always gone in less than twenty-four hours, always leaving her quiet and somehow sad. You’d reappear then, determined to cheer her up. It was a routine that worked for all of you.  
  
In the spring of 2005, Harper announced that she was moving to a new studio, courtesy of her father. She would help her current landlord rent her space out, a condition of getting out of her lease. It didn’t take long for someone to take the bait, an attractive, intelligent, blue-eyed, blond guy who took himself way too seriously. Harper turned the place over, content that she’d passed it on to the right person and moved out. You saw her a little less after she moved because she became immersed in her work like you’d never seen before and dropping by just to fuck seemed like an interruption. But the guy who rented her place you saw more often—usually alone, at a gay club, spending the evening looking at every face in the joint until he found the one he wanted. It struck you as odd; he looked way too young to be so predatory.  
  
……  
  
But after about a month in her new place, the girl that always let you ride shotgun on the skin bus to Tuna Town didn’t want to party anymore. She still drank your beer, though, so you had hope. But that hope died when her buzz made her weepy rather than horny, laying her head in your lap. You weren’t used to her doing that before you’d unzipped. So you stroked her hair and heard yourself asking her what was wrong, felt yourself actually caring about the answer.  
  
Harper was tipsy and crying, telling you that she hadn’t seen her brother since she moved. She feared something awful had happened to him, and you didn’t hesitate to offer your services. The next morning, you blew off the Manhattan penthouse you were supposed to paint and began to search for Alan.  
  
Never let it be said that you didn't have a heart.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way._  
\--Robert Frost  
  
On the morning of Monday, April 19, 2005, you set out knowing who you were looking for and with a vague idea of where to look. It didn’t take you long to locate the right tunnel. You ignored the begging of those who lined the entrance, stopping instead beneath a catwalk above an active subway track. There were three guys and a woman up there, but no Alan. As you climbed the metal ladder to get to them, they got quiet, the woman on the catwalk hiding behind one of the men as was typical.  
  
“Where’s Alan?” you asked.  
  
“Not here,” the guarding man replied.  
  
“Where’d he go?”  
  
“Here, there, anywhere,” another man replied. You looked him straight in the face; he was fucked up, probably on smack.  
  
You pulled twenty bucks out of your pocket, “The first person who tells me where I can find him gets their hit for today.”  
  
The cowering woman, wrapped in a blanket as if it was the middle of winter, poked her head out around her bodyguard, “He got adopted.” Her protector cursed her, “Shut the fuck up. We don’t even know this asshole.”  
  
You ignored him and continued to make eye contact with the woman, “I don’t know what you mean by ‘adopted.’”  
  
“Got himself a new home. A good home,” she replied, staring not at your face, but at the money in your hand.  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Downstairs,” she replied.  
  
You thanked her, stepping forward to hand her the money. One of the men grabbed it first, and the smile on her face vanished completely. You looked at her, “If I find him, I’ll bring you the other half.” She nodded, watching you climb back down the ladder. When you got to the bottom, you heard her one last time, “You need to find a guy named Stitch.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_One man with courage is a majority._  
\--Thomas Jefferson  
  
After descending a couple of levels, you started to feel like you were in an overly-realistic video game where one false move could kill you. Each level was exactly the same: wander around, follow the suggestions of sketchy individuals until you found the one with actual authority. He would tell you how to get to the next level. From your best count, Alan was now living seven levels beneath the streets; the appointed sentry of the sixth level assigned someone to escort you the rest of the way. You were resentful at first, but then realized why: there were trip wires and booby traps everywhere. You would’ve never made it on your own.  
  
Your escort took you to the entrance of Alan’s community and instructed someone else to go find Stitch. You were allowed no farther without his permission. You guessed that it took him about five to seven minutes to appear, squinting even in the few shards of light filtering in the tunnel. It had taken you over an hour to get down there, and you were tiring of their procedures.  
  
“I’m looking for Alan Harper,” you told Stitch before he’d even stopped walking toward you.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Zeek.”  
  
“Zeek,” he repeated. He nodded, and you thought that was enough as he began to walk away, but then he stopped and turned around again, “Why are you here?”  
  
“His sister’s worried about him. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”  
  
“Wait here,” he told you, disappearing into the blackness again. You thought you were alone, but then became aware of at least three sets of eyes watching you. The darkness began to make you paranoid. They were blinking in unison?  
  
Minutes past, and in the silent blackness, you realized how loud your breathing sounded, how you could hear an echo of water dripping. And then you heard footsteps; Stitch had returned. “Come with me,” he said, and began walking away again, unconcerned, it seemed, whether you were actually following him or not.  
  
But you were.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_No man is good enough to govern another man without that other's consent._  
\--Abraham Lincoln  
  
When you finally stood in the doorway of Stitch’s bunker, you were flabbergasted by what lay in front of you. “Damn, this place is nicer than my apartment.” The room was large, impeccably clean, carpeted, and furnished. It had a working toilet and sink, microwave, and toaster. There was a set of shelves affixed to the wall above the sink that held everything from canned goods to toiletries to cigarettes, liquor, and condoms. Next to the bed (an actual bed, not a mattress on the floor) was a bookshelf stacked topped to bottom with books, newspapers, and magazines. There were two trunks in the bunker and the shell of a sofa that you supposed served its purpose. That day’s _New York Times_ was lying on the top shelf next to a clock radio flashing _12:00_ ; the headline read: _Taliban Returns to Afghanistan’s Air Waves_. Alan was lying on the bed, underneath the sheets, his body almost curled into a ball. Stitch closed the door behind you as you stepped all the way inside. You turned your head when it shut and saw three keyed padlocks hanging open. The place reminder you of a bomb shelter.  
  
Alan’s voice was softer than you ever remembered it, “What do you want?”  
  
“Your sister sent me. You missed your regular appointment.”  
  
Stitch responded, “He’s detoxing.”  
  
“Heroin?” you asked.  
  
Stitch confirmed your thoughts, “Yeah. He doesn’t want her to see him like this.”  
  
“Since when do you chase the dragon, Al?” you asked.  
  
“Since I fucked up.”  
  
“And when did you fuck up?”  
  
Alan stretched out a little, his eyes opening wider. He looked more like a child and less like a man at that moment, “Since she went to that new place.”  
  
Stitch sat down on the bed, essentially blocking your view of Alan’s face, “He thinks his father is trying to catch him.”  
  
You moved so you could see him again and told him, “He never comes around there, Alan. He pays the rent. That’s it.”  
  
Alan rolled his eyes and turned toward the wall. Your words were no comfort. Stitch stood and pushed you toward the door, as if Alan couldn’t hear him three feet away, “He’s fucked up, right now. When he’s clean, he’ll come back up.”  
  
……  
  
“Can I talk to him alone for a minute?” you asked.  
  
Stitch looked at Alan as if to get his permission, but you got the overwhelming impression that it was the other way around. He left the bunker and stood outside the door, instructing you not to let it close. You pulled a trunk beside the bed and sat down. “Do you want to be here?” you asked him.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You trust this guy?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
You lowered your voice, “Why?”  
  
“He takes care of me. If it weren’t for him bringing me down here, I’d probably be dead by now. He’s my friend.” You couldn’t really argue with Alan; he was living in the nicest place you’d seen since your journey began that morning. “He takes care of all of us,” Alan continued. “When I get better, he’s going to give me a job, so I can earn my keep.” You wanted to believe him but found it difficult, the moment so surreal. “I’m lucky, Zeek. Nobody does drugs down here. The whole community is clean. I have to get clean so I can stay.”  
  
You handed him one of your business cards with your cell number scrawled on the back, “If you change your mind, you call me. Anytime, day or night.”  
  
He smiled and took the card, folding it into his hand, “Don’t tell her I was using. Just tell her that I forgot or something, that I’ll come by next month.”  
  
“If you don’t, I’m gonna come get you and drag you back upstairs,” you told him. “We understand each other?”  
  
“I will, Zeek. I promise.”  
  
Stitch had re-entered the room and was standing behind you. You jumped when he spoke, “I’ll make sure he does. Don’t worry.”  
  
The man that had escorted you to the seventh floor was standing in Stitch’s doorway, smoking a cigarette, “Come on, man. I don’t have all day.”  
  
“Take care of yourself, Alan,” you told him.  
  
You heard him wish you well right before the door closed behind you, the click of three padlocks complete within seconds. Your trek back upstairs took less than thirty minutes. You made a point of finding the woman who’d pointed you in the right direction, and she was right where you left her on the catwalk, only alone this time, abandoned by her trio of bodyguards. You climbed the ladder once again and handed her twenty dollars and some advice, “Take this and get yourself to a shelter.”  
  
She refused, “Last time I went to a shelter, all I got was raped.” Your instincts told you that she was still being raped, only this time by the devils she knew.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon._  
\-- Napoleon Bonaparte  
  
When you returned to Harper’s studio that day, you told her half the story—that Alan had disappeared because of the influence he felt their father had over her. But by leaving out the other half, you couldn’t stop her from coming to the conclusion that she had to leave her rent-free studio. “I have to go back. I have to be somewhere where he feels safe then.” You tried to reason with her, but failed. Within a week, she called you to tell you that she was moving back to her old place.  
  
“He gave it up, just like that?” you wanted to know.  
  
“No, of course not. We’re going to share the space.”  
  
So you helped her pack up, disassembled her drafting table, packed her computer, filled up your cargo van, and moved her back into her old studio. She was happy again—happy to party with you, happy to fuck you, happy to be working alongside a fellow artist. Justin was no stranger to the club scene, and though the evening might start out any variety of ways, it usually ended up with the three of you back at the studio suffering from acute bouts of intoxication. One of those nights, Harper and Justin decided to get baked and wax about art. You found yourself becoming increasing bored with their conversation, so you challenged them both to a game of strip poker. Justin lost three hands in a row and ended up sitting bare-assed on his milk crate.  
  
Sometimes hindsight is just a bitch.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_Husbands are awkward things to deal with; even keeping them in hot water will not make them tender._  
\--Mary Buckley  
  
Wealth, you’d decided, had gone to both of Brian’s heads. Your suite at The Regency was top shelf—naturally--but it wasn’t the luxury that convinced you, it was the way Brian was treated. As you walked through the hotel lobby that morning, you began to realize that Brian had become one of those people whose arrival launched a sophisticated game of ‘telephone’ among those who are paid to serve. And you knew that Brian knew this, always appearing blissfully unaware of circumstances he was setting in motion. You suspected it made him much harder than you ever had. The Brian you met that fateful night over ten years ago cultivated power; this Brian approached power with a benign acceptance, like a shawl your grandmother keeps on the back of her chair ‘just in case she gets a chill.’ It was rarely summoned, but always, always, _always_ there.  
  
But it didn’t suck to be married to that, even if you sometimes felt like Julia Roberts in her breakout role.  
  
That morning, Brian approached the front desk at The Regency under a sign reading: _Guest Services._ He’d already been greeted by name when he stepped off the elevator by an over-eager concierge who knew your name as well. _"Mr. Kinney, Mr. Taylor."_ To your recollection, you’d never been called ‘Mr. Taylor’ before nine a.m. in your entire lifetime…unless you were in bed with Brian…which was a different matter altogether. The concierge seemed incapable of dialing down the smile on his face as Brian put his laptop and PDA on the counter in front of him, and then spoke to him,  
  
“I need these items stored in the hotel safe for today,” Brian told him. Kevin Le Concierge responded like a stroked Cocker Spaniel, “Absolutely, sir.”  
  
_Don’t pee on the floor,_ you thought. _It’s not like he’s going to fuck you._  
  
You were staring at Kevin’s crotch, trying to see if he was, in fact, peeing on himself, when Brian tapped your arm to get your attention, “Justin.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Give me your ring.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He looked at you like you were not completely awake yet, “Give it to me.” You did, and he took his off as well along with his watch, zipping them inside a pocket on his laptop case and then, “Do you have anything else on you?”  
  
“Just my diamond-studded cock ring. But you said I’m not allowed to take that off,” you answered, wearing innocence like a cologne reeking since the day you were born.  
  
Brian suppressed a smile that only you could detect; Kevin Le KissAss looked at his fingernails. “Your wallet, please,” Brian said. You handed it to him, and he put it inside the case as well, handing you back your driver’s license. “Thank you, Kevin,” he said, as he signed a declaration form and handed it back to him with a very crisp hundred dollar bill. “And don’t mind him,” Brian added, not even looking at you, “He’s always this way if I don’t spank him before breakfast.”  
  
“Yes, sir.  
  
……  
  
“Thank you, sir.  
  
……  
  
“Have a good day, Mr. Kinney.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Brian took your hand and led you out of the lobby, your face so red you’d lost all sense of direction.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You need to have your head examined,” you told him a little while later as the two of you were entering the bank.  
  
“You might be right,” Brian responded. “But I’m not taking my pants off right now.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_The nice thing about egotists is that they don't talk about other people._  
\--Lucille S. Harper  
  
You’d see many things that day that you weren’t expecting, but the first was the smile on Zeek’s face as you and Justin approached him. “I never thought I’d say this, Boss Man, but I’m actually glad to see you.” You felt the same way, but it freaked you out a little. The four of you re-acclimated with one another, and then Zeek pointed to Sam, “He’s got everything we need in his pocketbook.” Sam laughed, “I have a toddler. I’m prepared for anything.”  
  
“How much cash did you bring?” Zeek asked you.  
  
“Two thousand.”  
  
He seemed to relax a little, “That should be plenty.”  
  
“I figured a thousand to get down there and a thousand to get back,” you added.  
  
……  
  
Stitch had suddenly appeared again, in that way he had of popping up out of nowhere. He smiled at Justin, specifically, seeming barely interested in you at all. The four of you followed him behind a fence, down a hill, and then through a small park. If Stitch hadn’t been with you, you would’ve never even noticed the entrance to the tunnel. The only tell-tale sign was the people hanging around it; they weren’t the kind you’d chat up at the water cooler.  
  
The entrance to the tunnel was filled with litter, and as far as you could tell, the people who loitered there didn’t actually live there. There were no mattresses, boxes, or blankets anywhere, nothing that made it feel like home.  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_I am not young enough to know everything._  
\--Oscar Wilde  
  
Your autopsy was over that Wednesday morning, and it was true you’d felt nothing after the first blow, that it knocked you unconscious instantly. The battering of your body was only for show; you never even put up a fight. At just six years old physically, your mother’s lap was comfortable again; she was teaching you how to tie your shoes. Madeline floated next to you as you watched the hospital staff return your body to the morgue. It seemed unfair to you that she had wings.  
  
“It’s because she’s a child, Alley,” your mother told you. “The other children—look they’re all the same.” Madeline flew away to join them, but you knew she’d be back soon. Most babies, you thought, were way too needy to flit around all day. Maybe Madeline was less of a baby and more of a pest.  
  
“How come I can still see stuff, Mom?” you asked. “You can’t.”  
  
“You’re not comfortable here yet,” she told you.  
  
“How long did you see stuff for?”  
  
“The last thing I remember was you placing a pink rose on my coffin. Then there was this warm breeze and everything faded away. I had all the answers I needed, I guess.”  
  
“Will that happen to me?” you wanted to know.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
You were skeptical, “Did that happen to you, Nurse Tate?” She was always beside your mother, even when you couldn’t see her.  
  
“It sure did.”  
  
Madeline was back again; you could feel her tiny feet in your hair like she was dancing on your head. “Will it happen to her, too?”  
  
Your mother kissed the top of your head, for some reason Madeline was never in her way, “She’s a child; it happened instantly.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_Ah, the patter of little feet around the house.  
There’s nothing like having a midget for a butler._  
\--W.C. Fields  
  
Your thirty-second diagnosis of Harper’s mental state that morning told you that she was going through the five stages of grief on speed. You could feel her anger boiling beneath the surface, quelled only by the refusal of her body to participate. But the fury was still victorious, shoving tears down her face as if there was a row boat somewhere that they were sinking. You held her hand, let her talk, rant, and sob until she started to shake. You offered her breakfast which she refused. “I think I’d prefer a tranquilizer.” You gave her a generous dose of Klonopin and stayed with her until she calmed down. When she asked for hot tea and Amelia, and you went downstairs to get both. Amelia was done with her breakfast, hypnotized by the television. You heated a cup of tea in the microwave, sweetened it with honey, and then asked Amelia to follow you upstairs. Her little hand could just reach the door knob of the studio door, and she pushed it all the way open and asked, “Do you feel better, Mommy?”  
  
Harper smiled, “Yes, I do. Can you come sit with me for a minute?”  
  
“I wanna make you some breakfast,” she told her mother, marching past Harper and into her tiny kitchen. “You can have some eggs and some cereal, ‘kay Mommy?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And some pizza and some yogurt.”  
  
“Sounds delicious.”  
  
Harper drank the tea you gave her, and you sat in the doorway while Amelia cooked for and served her mother, breakfast after breakfast. At one point, she brought Harper an orange plastic cup and an announcement, “This is your orange juice, Mommy. It’s the ‘spensive kind.”  
  
You laughed and Amelia told you, “I don’t have enough for you, Dr. Car-ride. I only have enough for Mommy and Daddy and me.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll just drink water,” you told her. She brought you a cup with a plastic ice cube in it. It was one of those gag ice cubes with a fly in it. You ranked even lower than you expected. “There’s a bug in my water, Amelia.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” she said, throwing her hands up in defeat, “I tried really hard but he won’t come out. He just lives there.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll just ignore him, then.” You looked over at Harper again, and she was almost asleep. You took her tea away and covered her up as she slid back down under the blankets. Amelia was oblivious, her pink apron strings flying everywhere as she buzzed around the studio. “Amelia, let’s go play downstairs. I think your Mommy is asleep.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
She followed you out into the hall and waited as you closed the door. The two of you walked back downstairs, hand in hand. When you got to the bottom, she let go of your hand and tapped you on the arm. “What?” you asked.  
  
“That fly, he’s not scary; he’s just betend.”  
  
“That makes me feel a lot better,” you told her.  
  
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh too big for her little body, “Me, too.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_There is no terror in a bang, only in the anticipation of it._  
\--Alfred Hitchcock  
  
The quest to find Justin’s artwork that day quickly became a journey to the center of the earth punctuated with cameo appearances by the various guards of hell in Dante’s _Inferno._ The pecking order was as follows: Stitch in the lead, Justin and Sam in the middle, and you and Zeek in the back, bringing up the rear. “I don’t mind being in the back,” you told Zeek. “The scenery’s nice.”  
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
You looked at him like he was asking for it, but he clarified once he saw the expression on your face, “I meant Sam, dumb ass.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. He is hot.”  
  
“And hopelessly straight,” Zeek added.  
  
“Well, he’s nice to look at,” you offered.  
  
“Take what you can get sometimes, I guess,” Zeek agreed.  
  
……  
  
The first two levels of the tunnels were unremarkable. The people populating them ignored your little group completely. They were mostly drunks and junkies with nothing but their next fix on their minds. Zeek pointed to two ladders bolted to the walls of the tunnels and told you, “There used to be a catwalk there connecting those two ladders. Alan lived on that one when he first came down here. Transit Authority tore it down several years ago. They don’t want people sleeping over active tracks.”  
  
“I’m beginning to feel like one of the Hardy Boys,” you confessed.  
  
“I always feel like I’m on some Scooby Doo drug trip when I come down here,” he admitted in return.  
  
_Scooby Doo drug trip. That’s redundant._  
  
……  
  
As you walked, Zeek explained what to expect as you went deeper, teaching you about the electrified third rail on the tracks, and informing you that he had a revolver strapped to his leg.  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you asked.  
  
“I’m dead serious, Boss Man.”  
  
“Thanks for the update, MacGyver.”  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
……  
  
Your heart began to beat faster, and you made sure that Justin was never more than a few feet in front of you. He and Sam were involved in deep conversation, the snippets you overheard were about Harper, art, cameras, and careers. As the five of you approached the entrance to the third level down, Stitch stopped in front of an open manhole, “We have to go down on at a time.”  
  
You stepped forward and stared down into the hole. You couldn’t see anything, so you asked, “What’s down there? Alligators or some shit?”  
  
Stitch laughed, “No. No alligators. I’ll go first. And Zeek?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ll go last.”  
  
You watched Stitch disappear into the hole and then stepped in front of Sam, “I’m going next.”  
  
The ladder going down was perfectly straight, the bars rough and rusted inside your grip, and the only sense you had of how close you were to the ground was the sound of Stitch’s voice. Absent that, the ground would’ve surprised the hell out of you even with Sam’s flashlight shining down the hole. When you got to the bottom, you looked around. It was too dark to make anything out, but you could hear voices and the stench was different than up above. It smelled more human. “Come on, Justin,” you shouted. When you saw his sneakers on the rungs, you counted for him, “You’ve got fifteen steps, Justin. You’re on five.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
When he got to the bottom, he wiped his hands on his jeans and called for Sam. When Sam arrived, he shone a light upward for Zeek, who, in turn, extinguished his light, stuffing it in his pocket for the trip down.  
  
Once the five of you had ten feet on the ground, the flashlights stayed on--necessary because it was darker than an inkwell and because the walls had come alive.  
  
  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/).


	34. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 31-Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 9/10/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 31-SOULS**  
  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_the house that Jack built_  
  
They don’t roll out the red carpet for you when you die; it’s far less spectacular. They send someone to get you, and in your case, when you died, you wondered if perhaps God was having a rough year because your pick up was a bloody, mangled guy--practically a kid--who had no fucking clue who you were. He was just there and you were just there and it was just time to go. You never think that the first words you utter in the afterlife will be, “What the fuck happened to you?”  
  
“I fell. You know, _splat._ ” He slapped his hands together emphasis. “Forty fucking feet, straight down.”  
  
“Jesus Christ.”  
  
“Yeah,” the guy replied, “They keep telling me he’s around here somewhere. Fuck if I’ve ever seen him. Your name’s Leo, right?”  
  
“Yeah, how’d you know that?”  
  
“No clue. I’m Chris. I’d shake your hand, but—"  
  
He extended his right hand, and you finished his sentence, “But yours is broken.”  
  
“Yep. So how’d you kick it?”  
  
“Kick it? Congestive heart failure.”  
  
“In your sleep?” he wanted to know.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You lucky bastard.”  
  
After walking for a while, you asked him how much farther and he told you that he didn’t know, “We just walk ‘till we get there.”  
  
“Get where?” you asked.  
  
“Wherever we’re going.”  
  
And so you, a man who was once in control of so much, were at the mercy of something you couldn’t explain and someone you didn’t really want to know. At some point on this short-long journey, he stopped, turning his bruised face in your direction, “I know who you are. I know now. You’re Leo _Brown._ ”  
  
“That I am.”  
  
“Of Brown Athletics.”  
  
“Right, again.”  
  
……  
  
“God, I miss playing football,” he told you. “Think I could have a sweatshirt?”  
  
You looked around wondering if one was just going to magically appear, and it didn’t, but you were unable to refuse him, “Sure. Anything you want.”  
  
“You rock for an old, fat guy.”  
  
“As do you,” and then you paused, trying to formulate your thoughts, “For an ex-football playing, all-American, accident prone kinda kid.”  
  
……  
  
Time passed and you got where you were going, wherever that was, and your arrival pissed off an old man standing in front of a wall of televisions. There was every type of TV you could imagine: color, black and white, high definition, picture-in-picture…even one showing a montage of Brown Athletics commercials over the years. Chris’s entire demeanor changed as he approached the man who was standing in front of the television screens and cursing. He introduced you, “Jack, this is Leo. Leo, Jack Kinney.”  
  
“You mother fucking asshole. Look what you did,” Jack demanded.  
  
You were taken aback, “Fuck you.”  
  
“No, fuck you,” he reiterated. “You just turned off my fucking channel.”  
  
……  
  
The passing of the remote was an honored ceremony, and Chris performed it with the enthusiasm of dryer lint:  
  
“Leo Brown. Welcome to the AfterDeath. We’re all so glad to have you.” Jack snorted. Chris laughed and then made himself get serious again, “We hereby officially inform you that you are dead. In recognition that I have dutifully informed you that you’ve kicked the bucket, please accept this remote control.” And then he turned to Jack, “How’d I do?”  
  
“Just get on with it, you wise ass.”  
  
So Chris continued in a manner befitting Vanna White of _Wheel of Fortune_ (only on Thorazine), taking his place in front of the televisions, “This remote control activates all nine televisions. There may be things that you want to see and things you don’t want to see, but, regardless, you will only see what you need to see.”  
  
“That made no sense,” you told him.  
  
Chris pressed the remote into your hand, and began walking away with Jack, leaving you all alone. You overheard Jack talking to the kid right as you were turning on the sets, “ _Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt?”_  
  
*********************  
  
  
_when you’re sure you’ve had too much of this life_  
  
The worst thing about the AfterDeath was that there were no chairs. So you had to stand and watch in brilliant Technicolor as Nate fired Kyle, your assistant whose tears would soon dry up once the estate was settled, as your funeral was attended by so many, but few who really cared, and how your company, your sentimental cash machine, would fare in your absence. And then the screens went blank as quickly as they’d come to life and you were left all alone in an eerie quiet.  
  
And then you heard a voice from somewhere behind you. When you turned around, there was a woman standing there. Her appearance made you think she was in her mid-thirties, but the sadness in her eyes added decades to her face. She introduced herself as Ruth Harper and took your hand, and then you felt that urge again, that _come on, let’s go_ tug in your chest. You had no idea who this woman was or why she’d now come for you, and when you asked her, she confessed, “I don’t know either. I’m just supposed to be here.” It seemed like enough of an answer; death didn’t lend itself well to tenacious curiosity.  
  
Soon, though, you could tell that she wasn’t just holding your hand, she was clinging to you as she led the way. “Watch out for Jack,” she told you.  
  
“Why?”  
  
He wasn’t liked by the women, she told you. “He was the one that came to get me.” She squeezed your hand, “And I didn’t want to go with him, but I had no choice.”  
  
“No choice?”  
  
“You get one chance. If you don’t take it, you stay in that windy limbo-place forever.”  
  
“Did you know him?” you asked.  
  
“No. We have a connection of some sort.”  
  
Death was beginning to feel more like the bonus round of twenty questions, “What connection?”  
  
She whispered to you, “I think it’s because we were both terrible parents.”  
  
“That’s not true, Ruth. You know that’s not true.”  
  
“That has to be it. Why else would they send him?”  
  
You’d discover later that Ruth was in death the same way she was in life—horribly insecure, depressed, stained with the curse of unworthiness. And Jack, she told you, well, he was worse. He was hollow--no, wait—worse than hollow. He was a black hole constantly trying to suck everything in his direction.  
  
……  
  
If you’re lucky when you die, the only thing left when you shed your physical form is a pure stillness. Those left behind on the other side refer to it as ‘peace,’ but that’s not quite it. Peace was something you desired; this stillness didn’t originate inside you—it just was. And yet sometimes there were disturbances, especially when someone new was crossing over.  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_the unbearable lightness of being_  
  
They say that when you die your hair and nails keep growing for a while, but they don’t tell you that your view of the world will grow as well, that your own decomposition will become meaningless to you as you watch what else unravels. Watching it happen reminded you of the Super Bowl, of those freezing cold January days when you and Stitch would stand outside an electronics store watching the game on one of its many televisions in the window. There were always a least ten televisions in the window on that night, all showing the same thing. And death was like that, except that there were nine different channels all playing at once, so you watched your life like the Super Bowl, standing with your arms crossed in front of you, your knees locked, your gaze straight ahead.  
  
Harper.  
  
You’d watched Sam walk out the door that morning, watched him leave her behind and wished that the dead had special privileges or magic powers or something that would’ve allowed you to take his place. Death wasn’t so much banishment from living as it was just paralysis of everything but your emotions. You’d cried more in the first twenty four hours of your death that you’d ever cried in your entire life. But the crying felt different than it used to because the tears you were shedding weren’t yours. They belonged to your sister and your friends.  
  
The tightness in Harper’s chest kept you wide awake as she slept. But then that sensation morphed into remorse, into anger that you’d let this happen to you, that you couldn’t be there for her. Your passing left a gaping hole inside her; she needed you to be there, to be needy, vulnerable, and grateful. She needed to take care of you, and you’d robbed her of that. And somewhere between before and now, your mother had left your side, taking Madeline and Nurse Tate and everything you knew in this nebulous place with her, leaving you there to overdose on grief.  
  
Well, it couldn’t kill you.  
  
Gone was the part of you that could distinguish your thoughts and feelings from someone else’s; your mind became a repository for everyone else’s reactions as if your body was just a vessel, the channel that every response has to pass through to reach fruition.  
  
Things were starting to feel different now than they had at first; that sense of incomprehensible loss was fading away inside her. You were no longer the missing piece of the puzzle, the one that nobody could find, because the puzzle was being revised. A new picture was forming--one without you in it--and Harper was trying almost manically to make those pieces fit. You wanted to help her but you had no voice, wanted to reach out but you had no hands.  
  
The decay had begun.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_leaves behind a tragic world_  
  
The weirdest thing you’d encounter in this purgatory would be the sense that something that you’d perceived as so difficult and complicated, namely life, would seem so simple from on high. You could see Stitch underground, leading your friends, people who’d never seen where or how you lived, and you weren’t exactly sure what to think about it. You friends were learning what you already knew—that Stitch was a veteran of more than just conflict. He was an artist, a scholar, a father, a teacher, and sometimes when he was drinking, a philosopher, too…  
  
According to Stitch, if society was an hourglass, then the fourth level underneath the city streets was the point of constriction. Above it, the higher you went, the better things got. The exact opposite was true if you went below it. What determined where any given person would live would be his ability to strong-arm his vices.  
  
The existential pinch people felt when they got down that far was an intangible reality. It was the place where life decisions were made, where people decided if life in the tubes was right for them. It was the point at which the claustrophobics and the paranoid returned to the less enclosed tunnels above. Those who wanted to press on had to wait in the ‘lobby’ for a formal invitation. That could take days, months, or years, so those still waiting to be chosen made homes in the crevices chiseled into the walls decades ago. And then there were some who’d long ago abandoned being invited downstairs and made the waiting area their home, charging anybody for passage to a place they weren’t allowed.  
  
You were lucky. You’d been chosen.  
  
But sooner rather than later, someone would take your place.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_here we are now,  
entertain us_  
  
Ten feet on the ground produced the echo for your journey, reminding you that you weren’t going alone. You panned your flashlight to your left and right illuminating graffiti-covered walls. Stitch was moving on, though, so you followed him, falling into step with Sam. You’d hear many voices as that day went on, the tunnel architecture carrying every one of them right to your ear. Near or far away, it wouldn’t matter, because you were in the thick of it.  
  
As you walked, you could distinguish Brian’s footsteps from Zeek’s, he’s taller than Zeek, his legs are longer. And you could hear him bitching about the imminent demise of his favorite black boots to which Zeek reminded him that he had enough money to buy up every pair of boots ever made. And then you felt something pop you in the butt, and when you turned around Brian was pointing to Zeek, “He just shot a rubber band at your ass.”  
  
“Yeah, right, Brian,” you said, shining your flashlight right in his face, “Like you don’t have more practice aiming for my ass.”  
  
“Well, I’d like to think I do…presently company excluded.”  
  
You rolled your eyes and started walking again, their laughter bouncing off the walls all around you:  
  
_”So, which linen closet did you fuck Justin in? Upstairs or downstairs?”_ Of all the things in the world that Brian could talk about, and that’s what he picked.  
  
“ _Downstairs.”_  
  
_”Did you notice that the good doctor remodeled it?”_  
  
_”So?”_  
  
_”So, I guess he doesn’t want you boning anyone else in it. It’s got shelves in it now.”_  
  
Zeek laughed, _”Promise me you won’t remodel the pool house, okay?”_  
  
_”Or the sauna, right?”_  
  
_”Yeah, and, uh, maybe keep your study the same way, too.”_  
  
……  
  
_”You fucker.”_  
  
……  
  
_”It’s not my fault you own ninety percent of the world’s fuck pads, Boss Man.”_  
  
……  
  
_”Good point.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You all got quiet again and then something scurried between your legs, and you screamed like a girl. “What the fuck was that?” you demanded, trying to push your heart back in your chest. “Sewer rat,” Stitch answered. “Holy fuck, I almost shit in my pants,” you responded.  
  
“You might as well; it already smells like you did,” Brian said.  
  
“I’d smack you with my flashlight, Brian, if I wasn’t scared to turn around.”  
  
“All right, ladies,” Zeek broke in, and then he came right up behind you, pretending like Brian couldn’t hear him, “Say the word, and I’ll clock him for you.”  
  
_“I heard that, Brutus.”_  
  
*********************  
  
  
_the terror of knowing what the world is about_  
  
Sam was much more somber than the three of you, worried about Harper, so you tried to shift the subject to something less emotional, more intellectual. He was a soft spoken guy, his passion filtered through the lens of a camera before anyone ever saw it. You suspected that the only person who ever witnessed it in its pure form was Harper. He struck you as a person who absorbs everything and returns only what he feels someone can tolerate. You noticed this mostly with Amelia, the way he was able to calm her, to redirect her, without ever raising his voice. Stitch walked alone for much of the journey, but he seemed completely suited for it as if he never expected company. Sometimes you swore you could feel people staring at you, but when your flashlight would try to follow the hunch, there was never anyone there—that you could see.  
  
If there was one thing you learned from being on your own in the city that never sleeps, it was that a man’s life is a blank canvas. You can be nobody or you can be somebody, the choice is yours. But, ultimately, it’s a blind choice because you won’t know when you’ve made it. True to form, you’d unwittingly made yours one evening almost three years prior on a Greyhound. Your bite of the Big Apple was being handed to you that night as you sat sketching on a dark, sparsely populated bus, the reading light above your head shining as brightly as it could on your penciling hand. Your fate would leave you wondering: what’s the greater accomplishment, to be known for your creations or to be consistently inspired to create?  
  
As your flashlight roamed the walls enclosing the five of you, it became harder and harder to focus on anything anyone was saying. And then you saw flashes of something you recognized:  
  


  


  
  
  
You called to Stitch, and he doubled back. Brian ran into you when you stopped, his flashlight poking you in the ass because that was probably what he was shining it on.  
  
“Brian, watch where you’re going.”  
  
“I was.”  
  
(He wasn’t lying.)  
  
You turned your attention back to Stitch, “That’s Tom Slaughter’s _New York City._ ”  
  
He smiled, “That was the first piece Al and I ever did together. That was before he could burn.”  
  
“Burn?”  
  
“He was still learning.”  
  
The beam of your flashlight was far too miniscule to truly appreciate the scale of the piece. Not only had they recreated it almost perfectly, they’d quadrupled it in size. “That’s amazing,” you told him.  
  
“It’s fun, too,” Stitch added.  
  
As the five of you began to walk again, you found yourself next to Stitch, asking him where you were because, “This isn’t a subway tunnel.” You tried not to dwell on the fact that you were becoming more and more confused about where you were.  
  
“It’s an old utility pipe. These tunnels are filled with half-completed construction projects. This is one of them.” And then it was his turn to stop, “Come here. Look at this:”  


 

  


  
  
  
“Did you do this one, too?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, only that was a long time ago. Before I’d even met Alan.” Stitch knocked on the concrete wall, “City came through here a few years ago and started sealing some of these tubes. When they sealed this one, one of my friends was still inside.” Sam was standing very quietly behind you; you could hear him breathing as you asked Stitch,  
  
“Was he--?”  
  
“She,” he corrected you.  
  
“Was she-?”  
  
“Alive? Yeah.” He tapped on the wall again, as if it was Morse code for the dead. “Couple of us camped out in front of the mayor’s office for a week afterward; they stopped fucking around down here after that.” He shook for a moment as if he was trying to shed the memory like a snake sheds its skin.  
  
…….  
  
As you got closer to what was the passage way to the fifth level down, you could hear a roar again. Stitch pointed to a hole knocked in a wall about four feet high, “Other side of this wall, tracks are live again. Stay right behind me; you won’t be able to hear me.”  
  
……  
  
The noise announcing the impending train was deafening. You stood still when Stitch told you to, your back and palms pressed against Monet’s _Water Lilies_. Your hand bumped into Brian’s, swimming in the cinder-block water; he grabbed it, riding out the vibrations with you.  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_we are spirits in the material world_  
  
One of the first things Stitch taught you when he invited you to live with him was that man has lived underground for centuries—as a slave, as a prisoner, as invisible manual labor. He has lived among the aqueducts, among entombed royalty, as a soldier waiting for orders, as an order of monks who believed that any source of light tainted their faith. Underground life, he told you, was textbook survival proven through the ages. “You and me, we’re part of history, Al,” he’d always remind you. You began to wonder if you’d meet Stitch again, if you’d be the one to usher him into a life much higher than he’d ever known.  
  
……  
  
Your legs were beginning to tire when a woman you’d never met before came and stood beside you. You ignored her at first because what you were watching was far more interesting—Justin was discovering your world. It had never really occurred to you to invite him over. At first it felt like an invasion of your privacy for him to see how you lived, and then you remembered that you were dead.  
  
The woman sitting next to you put her hand on your thigh. You looked down at it; it was an old woman’s hand wearing a silver diamond wedding ring. You didn’t recognize her voice either, but you listened when she spoke, “Your mother asked me to come over here and sit with you, Alan.”  
  
“I don’t know who you are,” you told her, still staring at Justin. The only thing you could feel was his sadness soaking you to the bone.  
  
“My name is Emma Cartwright,” she said. “Daniel is my son.”  
  
And then you looked at her face and saw the resemblance immediately, realized that the cadence of her voice was exactly like his—calm and purposeful.  
  
“Are you dead, too?” you asked her. (Being dead doesn't automatically make you a genius.)  
  
“Have been for quite a while.”  
  
‘I think I remember that, remember you dying.” She put her arm around you, and you leaned on her shoulder, suddenly wanting to be comforted. “How can you be here with me?” you asked her. “How come you can see what I’m seeing?”  
  
“I think it’s because something that I thought was resolved really isn’t.”  
  
“Because of me?”  
  
“I think so."  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_was her childhood filled with rhymes,  
stolen hooks, impassioned crimes?_  
  
Downstairs that morning, you and Amelia sat at your dining room table and drew and drew and drew. (Talent-wise it was an even match.) Amelia worked--just like her mother--with an intensity beyond her years. The two of you played a game that had been blossoming between you: Amelia would command you to draw a specific thing, and (hiding your paper from her) you would draw something completely different. When you revealed your creation, she’d bust out laughing at the crocodile you drew instead of the prescribed frog. You’d insist, however, that it was a frog, just to entertain her.  
  
“It’s not a frog, Dr. Car-ride.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“Because a frog says fribbit.”  
  
“Well, then what does a crocodile say?” you asked.  
  
She stretched her arms out in front of her slapping them together, “Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.”  
  
And then it was on to the next request and the next and the next until she said, “Now, draw your mommy.”  
  
“I’ll draw mine if you draw yours.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
So you both drew your mothers and portrait-wise Harper fared better than your mother, and then Amelia stopped suddenly and stared at you.  
  
“What’s wrong?” you asked. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”  
  
She shook her head, “Mommy’s phone; it’s ringing.”  
  
“I’ll be right back.”  
  
……  
  
You dug through Harper’s always wide open purse on your kitchen counter and answered her cell; it was Sam.  
  
“How are you getting reception in the tunnels?” you asked.  
  
“ _There’s a break,”_ he told you. _”We’re getting some much needed fresh air—just for a minute.”_  
  
“Oh, okay.”  
  
_”How is she? How’s Harper?”_  
  
“She’s fine. She’s asleep.”  
  
_”Is Amelia driving you crazy?”_  
  
“Not at all; we’re coloring. How’s it going?”  
  
_”It’s like everything I expected and everything I didn’t.”_  
  
……  
  
When you returned to the dining room, Amelia had covered her sheet of paper in front of her and there was a black crayon on the floor next to her chair. You picked it up, sat down again, and asked, “What are you working on?”  
  
“These are my peoples,” she said, beginning to point to each separate scribble on the page, “I made Mommy, and I made Daddy. See? And then I made Uncle Alan.” There was a fourth scribble on the page that she was still diligently working on. When she finished, she held her picture up, looking at it the exact same way you’d seen Harper study photographs in her studio. “And then I made Brime Kinney.”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_life’s rich pageant_  
  
Before re-entering the tunnel six levels down and at Stitch’s insistence, the four of you had donned face masks, replaced the batteries in your flashlights, and split up the rest of the cash. Zeek took the thousand Brian handed him and split it between he and Sam. Brian pocketed the rest. All of you walked closer together now, for safety reasons and so you could hear Stitch.  
  
According to him, the sixth level was best place to paint. It had long stretches of uninterrupted walls, and over the years, he and Alan had painted nearly every square inch of it. The five of you were no longer alone. You were flanked on both sides by Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh, and Kandinsky, and then turned a corner to find Picasso…  
  
and a memory of a heated conversation on the eve of a haircut...  
  
_“You know 'Guernica'? People say it's the most powerful anti-war statement ever made. I say bullshit. It hangs in a fucking museum, collecting dust. And this is all bullshit. It doesn't do a mother fucking thing.”_  


 

  


  
  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I’ve been there  
I know the way_  
  
At the entrance to the seventh and final level of your journey, Zeek stopped all of you, called Stitch back, and began to instruct the three of you:  
  
“Okay, first of all, the four of us, we stay in one straight line, four across.”  
  
“Why?” you asked.  
  
“There are trip wires the rest of the way down now,” Zeek answered, turning and shining his flashlight along the ground in front of him. “It’s razor wire; it will slice you and you will bleed like a mother fucker, so Kinney, I want you on one end, and I’ll be on the other.” Brian nodded. “Now, the way you spot these things is not by looking at the ground in front you, you look along the walls.” And with that, he shone his flashlight about three feet high on the walls. “They’re marked, just not where you’d expect them to be. See those white flags every few feet? That’s the end of a wire. So, we take it step by step, wire by wire, and you step when I tell you to, got it?”  
  
“Doesn’t Stitch know where they are?” you asked. “Shouldn’t we just watch him?”  
  
“Stitch knows this terrain so well, he could walk it blindfolded. The only reason these things are even flagged is because he flagged them. He’ll lead, but I want you to stay behind with me…just in case he missed one.”  
  
Zeek flanked the left side and Brian flanked the right. It proved much trickier than it sounded; it was antithetical to look at the wall before you took a step. It reminded you of trying to rub your head and pat your stomach at the same time. Brian held your hand, his arm stiffening, holding you back until he was ready to step. Zeek noticed and told Sam, “Nothing personal, pretty boy, but I’m not holding your hand.”  
  
“I’m crushed,” he told Zeek, and soon enough the four of you developed a routine. The closer you got to where Alan lived, the closer together the wires became.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_we can reach our destination_  
  
Although walking through the equivalent of an underground art gallery had been breathtaking, nothing prepared you for what you’d see when you arrived safely inside the seventh level. It was nothing like you expected. It wasn’t a dank, disgusting place where junkies hung out in between fixes, it was an actual community of men, women, and children who cared about one another and their home. Stitch unlocked the door to his room, three padlocks with three different keys, and when he swung the metal door open, the light was on in the room. A man who looked like he was not-quite thirty was sitting on the perfectly made bed. Stitch spoke to him, “Go on. I’m back. Get out.” The man hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but then changed his mind, walking out the door.  
  
“Who was that?” you asked.  
  
“Lewis. He watches the place when I’m not here.”  
  
“But he was locked inside here,” you continued.  
  
“You think padlocks will stop a man from taking something he wants?” Stitch said, raising his voice.  
  
“Cut it out, Stitch,” Zeek interrupted, and then turned to you, “Stitch doesn’t go upstairs much. When he does, somebody has to watch the place.”  
  
“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off,” you conceded.  
  
Stitch sat down on the bed, his fingers wrapping around the foot board, “You didn’t. I just want Al to be there, you know? Not him.”  
  
……  
  
In all the years you’d known Alan, you’d always pictured him sleeping out in the cold, digging through trash for food, doing cliche homeless people things, but this room was nicer than some dorm rooms you’d seen. Stitch even had a nineteen inch television hooked to a multi-disc DVD player. “You watch movies down here?” you asked.  
  
“Netflix.”  
  
“Netflix?”  
  
“Yeah, people mail tons of movies everyday; sometimes I intercept them,” Stitch said with a mischievous grin on his face.  
  
“You steal people’s movies?” you asked.  
  
“No, I don’t _steal_ them. I just watch them that day and then put them back in the mail.”  
  
You opened the DVD player and watched three discs spin into place: _Blackhawk Down, A Clockwork Orange_ , and _Batman Forever._  
  
“ _Batman Forever?_ Art imitating life?”  
  
Stitch laughed, “All we need is a butler.”  
  
You sat down on the bed next to Stitch while Zeek stood in the doorway and while Brian and Sam walked around the room. “What is this place exactly?” you asked him.  
  
“It’s the infrastructure of a subway line that was retired over thirty years ago. City got the basics done, got water pumped in, got the structure built, and then politics got in the way or something and the plans were abandoned. The tunnel we were walking in, it’s a tunnel to nowhere.”  
  
“One way in, one way out, right?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yeah. That’s the only way to have a safe place underground.”  
  
Sam turned the sink on, smiling when the water ran clear, “They forgot to kill the water, right?”  
  
“And the electricity,” Brian added.  
  
But while Brian and Sam were examining the bizarre amenities, your eyes were fixated on the wall in front of you. It was covered with a mural that read ‘ _Security_ ’ in the bottom right corner. “Did Alan do this?” you asked, as your sketch of he and Harper stared back at you, literally bigger than life.  
  
Stitch smiled, “Yeah, took him fucking forever. He’s a goddamn perfectionist.”  
  
“It’s unbelievable; I don’t even know what to say.”  
  
“Some artists find self-portraits really difficult, and Al was one of them. When he saw your work, your sketches of him, he liked your version of him better, so he adopted it. He always said that you made him look more human than he ever felt.”  
  
Sam asked if he could take a picture of it and the room, “For Harper. I want her to see this.” Stitch agreed. Brian sat down on a trunk, and Zeek stepped outside the bunker door.  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_I can see the destiny you sold_  
  
It became impossible to separate your thoughts about Justin seeing your work for the very first time from what was happening inside of him. Zeek and Justin had put a barrier between themselves, but that mattered little because emotions were soaking right through it. And then Justin removed the obstacle, stepping outside the door. Zeek responded when Justin tried to comfort him, “ _I was there when you drew that. I saw that. I know what that picture means. Jesus Christ.”_  
  
“ _I know.”_  
  
……  
  
Death, you were soon figuring out, was little more than an abdication of responsibility, of surrendering the right to care for the people you love to those who are still living. And you wanted to scream that you were sorry, that you wanted to be there with them and not trapped in some kind of omniscient heaven-hell, but the only voice you had was a paintbrush.  
  
……  
  
Harper always said that art was about subjective balance. Subjective because what felt like equilibrium to one, might feel like chaos to another. That through the ages, art had meant different things to different societies; in some societies, art was proof of existence; it was the way men communicated with one another, explained to one another their common experience. In other societies, it was divisive and threatening because that which could be accurately represented was real. You’d grown up in the shadows of your father’s temper, your mother’s death, and your sister’s talent, and now the shadows were falling away, revealing you to people who, although they’d never see you again, were actually seeing you for the first time.  
  
But even in death, you were still naïve, for it was much more than you they were going to see. They were going to see themselves.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_you consider me a young apprentice_  
  
Lewis returned when Stitch called for him, “I’m going to show them around a little. Stay here.” Lewis asked if he could watch television, and Stitch agreed, pulling the door closed behind him as the five of you stepped back into the tunnel. He didn’t lock the door that time, so you assumed you weren’t going very far. You could smell smoke, and when you asked Stitch about it, he led you to the kitchen. There were two women and a man in there, a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, and a fire pit in the middle of the floor. The men were sitting beside it. “What are they doing?” you asked.  
  
“Skinning squirrels.”  
  
You backed out of the doorway, feeling sick, ignoring Stitch when he said they taste just like chicken. “Come on,” he told you, pulling you by the arm. The next doorway you saw bothered you as well, but in a completely different way. It was filled with women and about ten children, sitting together around a table. One of the women was reading to the children. They turned and looked at you in the doorway, and one of the women got up and came to the door. “What the fuck are you doing, Stitch?” she asked.  
  
“These are Alan’s friends. It’s okay.”  
  
“Whose children are these?” you asked. They were so pale, almost gray.  
  
The woman responded with a sharp defense, “They belong to all of us, and you’re interrupting their lessons.”  
  
Stitch changed the subject, and the woman walked back to the table and sat down again. “See that?” he said, pointing to a mural on the wall. “Al did that for the women.”  


 

  


  
  
  
It was Gustav Klimt, but the resemblance to Harper and Amelia was overwhelming. Sam took a picture of it and then walked away, shaking his head.  
  
“He was brilliant, Stitch. Did he know that? Did he know how good he was?” you asked him.  
  
“He saw himself as more of a copy cat than an artist.”  
  
“That’s not the work of a copy cat,” you told him, “That’s fucking unbelievable.”  
  
……  
  
As you followed Stitch for the rest of the tour, you felt yourself getting angry at Alan for hiding more than just himself underground. You were fairly sure that Harper knew little of his talent because you couldn’t imagine her knowing and not encouraging him to get out there. There was no need for somebody with his ability to live like that. And then you were pissed at yourself for thinking you had a right to revise someone’s life, especially now that it was over.  
  
But for all the things you’d shared with Alan over the years—food, clothing, conversation, he would ultimately share something with you that was far more valuable—his legacy.  
  
And the first leg of that journey was literally just around the corner…  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_maybe six feet  
ain’t so far down_  
  
Halfway through the journey and half the money had been spent, given to anyone who seemed even remotely interested in hindering your progress. Halfway through the journey, and you were quite sure that the stench was going to make your eyebrows fall out. You couldn’t wait to burn the clothes you had on, couldn’t wait to get the sting of ammonia out of your eyes. Zeek had abandoned you at one point to verify that his exit strategy from this bizarre netherworld was foolproof, and when he returned, you were glad to hear his conclusion, “I found it. We can get outside pretty fast, won’t have to retrace our steps.” You didn’t care if you had to walk all the way back to the hotel as long as you were breathing fresh air.  
  
The seventh level was sort of like a cul-de-sac, so the tour that each of you had embarked on would lead back to Stitch’s room, one way or another. As you got closer to it, you could hear a hiss and then Justin’s laughter and then his voice, “Oh shit, wait. Wait. I fucked it up.” You and Zeek turned the corner following the sound, and then you saw Stitch standing behind Justin, his right hand over Justin’s which was wrapped around a can of spray paint. “It’s all in the angle, Justin,” Stitch said, and Justin pushed on the nozzle sending a huge splatter of red paint over the wall in front of him. The two of you were several feet behind Sam, who was filming everything.  
  
“What angle?” Justin asked. “There’s ‘on’ or ‘off.’” Stitch took the can from him and did what Justin had just done but produced a much different result: a perfectly pure red line that didn’t even bleed. “Okay, let me try again,” Justin said, a nervous excitement in his voice. Stitch held his hand again, “Okay, relax your hand, let me do it so you can feel it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
"It took Al over a year to get it down to a science. It's tricky."  
  
It took a few tries, but eventually Stitch was able to make it work. Justin had a look of wide-eyed wonderment on his face as he looked at what he’d done. “That’s fucking amazing. And really hard to do.” When he handed the can back to Stitch, his hand was shaking. He shoved it in his pocket. He hadn’t seen you watching him, none of them had, and you watched them walk away toward Stitch’s room, listening to Justin peppering Stitch with questions about that technique. When they’d turned the corner, they took the light with them, so you switched on your flashlight. Zeek was a few feet ahead of you when he stopped suddenly, pointing his beam at the wall in front of him, “Check it out, Kinney.”  
  
There was a childish enthusiasm in his voice as if he’d just finished a box of cereal only to find the glow-in-the-dark prize at the very bottom.  
  


 

  


  
  
  
……  
  
……  
  
  
The beam of your flashlight joined his as the two of you stood together in humid silence.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
But then Zeek spoke, moving his light from the wall to your face, “So, who the fuck is Hobbs?"

  
  
The final image in this chapter was created by [](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/profile)[**briannahai**](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/) for BYBR. I asked her for a flower, and, instead, she planted a garden for me. You’ll see more of her wonderful talent as BYBR progresses.  
  
Lyrics taken from Aretha Franklin’s _The House that Jack Built_ , REM’s _Everybody Hurts_ , movie title _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_ , Paul McCartney & Wings’s _Listen to What the Man Said_ , Nirvana’s _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ , David Bowie’s (featuring Queen) _Under Pressure_ , Sting’s _Spirits in the Material World_ , REM’s _Photograph_ with Natalie Merchant, album title _Life’s Rich Pageant_ , _Can’t Get There from Here_ , and _Driver 8_ , Sting’s _Wrapped Around Your Finger_ twice and Creed’s _One Last Breath_.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/).


	35. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 32-Exculpatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 10/1/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 32-EXCULPATORY**  
  
**SARAH ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
  
_every silver lining has a touch of grey_  
  
Nate disappeared after breakfast that Wednesday morning, and as you were wandering through The Rockford’s kitchen, you could hear him playing the piano in The Tavern. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d heard him play in the morning, probably years. The music stopped an hour later, and you lost him again until you asked one of the housekeeping staff, “Have you seen my husband?”  
  
“He’s in room five,” you were told. “I was just restocking up there.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
The entrance to the spa at The Rockford was specifically designed to transport you somewhere else when you entered, forging a permanent seal between its visitors and the outside world. The huge door closed with a hush and New Age music played as you walked down the softly lit hall to room five. There was no visible number on the door; it’d just always been room number five. You were stopped by Marta, the spa’s manager, and asked, “Can I get you something, Sarah?”  
  
“My husband.”  
  
Marta smiled and pointed to a closed door, “He’s in there. Alone.”  
  
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” you told her, smiling as you wrapped your hand around the pewter door knob and pushed it open. The room was dark, the blinds closed against the cloudy day. Nate didn’t move, the intrusion barely noticed.  
  
He was lying face down on the table, a cream-colored towel draped over his hips, his thumbs tucked beneath them so he could let his arms relax. You pressed on a bottle of lotion and filled your hand. He spoke when he felt your hands on his skin, “I know it’s you,” he said. And then he moaned in some sort of pleasure from the pressure you were applying to his upper back.  
  
“How’d you know?” you asked.  
  
“Your perfume,” he said, “And you always pump the lotion three times.”  
  
“I do?”  
  
“Ever since I’ve known you.”  
  
“That’s a lot of lotion.”  
  
He laughed, and then you felt his body tense and release, his shoulders falling again. Even to your fingertips, he felt heavy, burdened. You worked on him for a while, until he was almost purring, his hands slipping out from underneath him and reaching for you, pulling your hips against the headrest. It was strange, but somehow you knew that it wasn’t affection he was craving as much as comfort—something familiar. The moment seemed to hang like a clothesline suspended between the two of you. You cut it, but very slowly…  
  
“Were you going to hide up here all day?” you asked him.  
  
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”  
  
A red flag.  
  
Nate was born, bred, and paid very well for his foresight, so if he wasn’t thinking ahead, he was making a conscious effort not to.  
  
“Why?” you asked, lengthening the muscle from his shoulder to his neck. He flinched.  
  
“Ow, that was too much.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
You backed off, lightening your touch, and then sat down on a stool so you could massage his scalp, his salt and pepper strands between your fingers. His arms lowered as well, his hands lying in your lap and not exactly still. “Don’t change the subject, Nate.”  
  
“I’m miserable,” he admitted, sounding like a little boy who’d just lost his shovel on the beach.  
  
“I can tell.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry; you’re entitled to your feelings—whatever they are.”  
  
“I know I am,” he said, “I just don’t like them right now.”  
  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_the ABC's we all must face_  
  
_shortly after your death…_  
  
Not to sound like the ungrateful dead, but a man should know that when he dies, the coffee will be for shit. He should know that although there are no chairs in the AfterDeath, there are picnic tables—cheap, sun-faded ones that give you splinters. He should know that passing time was sometimes worse than passing a kidney stone. Death was little more than a rape of expectations—at least when you were alive, you knew the exact opposite was coming.  
  
When you were a boy and so terrified of thunderstorms that you’d hide under your bed, your father told you, _”God has a bowling alley, Leo. He’s just practicing.”_ Your father was right, but he didn’t know about the televisions or the diner---  
  
( _Fudgepackers._ \-- in blinking brown neon. “Jack named it,” Vic told you. “Right before I got here.”)  
  
Your father didn’t know that evil men would mingle with good, that segregation had been abolished in heaven as on earth.  
  
But regardless of all of that, you were facing facts—namely, that Leo Brown was a dead man.  
  
A dead man talking.  
  
……  
  
Well, gossiping actually. Gossiping and playing cards at a picnic table with Vic, Emma, and Sandra. Vic was dealing the next hand and leaning across the table, whispering to you, “Just so you know, Ruth isn’t all there.” His finger whirled next to his temple, just in case you didn’t know what he meant. Emma and Sandra nodded over their cards as if they knew this was true, and then Emma added, “It’s true. She’s a little crazy. My son, he’s a psychiatrist.”  
  
“So is mine,” Sandra added, prissy and proud.  
  
“So _we_ know,” Emma said. “She’s sick.”  
  
“Probably over-medicated, too,” Sandra said.  
  
“Well, what I don’t understand,” you told them, “Is how Jack was her pick up. She died in the 1980s; that’s impossible.”  
  
“Which explains her hair,” Sandra hissed.  
  
“She was a suicide,” Emma said, the shame thick in her voice, “No one came to get her.” Emma’s tone implied that Ruth had done something unforgivable by killing herself, something as awful as, say, not RSVP-ing to a dinner party.  
  
“Oh god,” you said. “That’s so sad.” (You hoped they knew that you meant the suicide and not their opinion of it.)  
  
“She calls Jack, ‘The Warden,’” Sandra continued. “ _I_ think he reminds her of some orderly at the mental hospital.” Tate walked by and Sandra immediately shut up. When she was gone, Sandra added, “Not that I think any less of her or anything.”  
  
“It’s tragic, really,” Emma agreed, a condescending expression far too comfortable on her face. You decided then that Emma and Sandra were like the cheerleaders of the AfterDeath—well to do, well-educated, well-dressed and extremely stuck up.  
  
It seemed a bit surreal to be sitting around a table with a bunch of Canasta-playing zombies talking about tragedy.  
  
Talk about overkill.  
  
“And she made it here all by herself, but she doesn’t believe that, no matter how many times we tell her,” Vic said. And just then, right on some kind of cosmic schedule, Jack smacked the silver bell in the diner window, and yelled, “VIC GRASSI, ORDER UP!”  
  
Vic went completely pale as he rose from his seat and walked to the window.  
  
“What’s going on?” you asked.  
  
“Oh, this is awful,” Emma said, worrying her hands in front of her face. “Just awful.”  
  
“What?” you asked. “What’s awful?” But no one paid any attention to you; they were staring at Vic. Sandra’s hands were clasped in front of her face.  
  
When Vic reached the window, Jack handed Vic his order that he hadn’t ordered, yelling, “ONE PEPPERONI PIZZA!” and Vic walked back to the table as slowly as he’d walked away, staring at the tray in front of him, and when he got back, he put the pizza on the table, sat down, and started to cry.  
  
“Vic, what’s wrong?” you asked. Emma and Sandra were both covering their mouths with their hands in shock when Vic pointed to the pizza in front of him and said, “Look at it.”  
  
So you did.  
  
Spelled out in small slices of pepperoni was the word ‘ _MIKEY._ ’  
  
“Who’s Mikey?” you asked, but no one answered you.  
  
Emma began to get nervous, “Vic, get up. Come on. You have to go. You have to.”  
  
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t move.” He was frozen.  
  
“What’s going on?” you asked.  
  
“His nephew. He’s dying,” Sandra said.  
  
It took the three of you to pry Vic off the bench and push him in the right direction. He turned around and waved to all of you, and then right before he was about to vanish from sight, there was another burst from the kitchen, “FALSE ALARM!”  
  
Vic turned around, horrified, “What? What do you mean?”  
  
“FALSE ALARM!” Jack repeated, as if they were the only two words he knew.  
  
Vic ran to the televisions with the three of you right behind him, grabbed the remote out of Ruth’s hand in a panic and tried to change the channel from Harper working in her studio to anything else, but it wouldn’t turn.  
  
“He can’t be dying, then, Vic,” Emma said. “It was a close call or something.”  
  
And then the Cindi Lauper music started blaring as the three of you pulled Vic back to the table, and when he sat down again and looked at the pizza, the pepperoni spelled absolutely nothing; it was just pepperoni. Vic picked it up, cursed, and smashed it on the ground. Five minutes later you were pulling him off Jack, trying to calm him down while Jack taunted him, “GONNA KILL ME, YOU AIDS-INFESTED COCKSUCKER?”  
  
“You mother fucking hateful piece of shit!” Vic screamed.  
  
……  
  
Chris laughed from behind the counter where his bloody hands were refilling salt shakers and told you, “That happened six years ago. We just like to fuck with him.”  
  
Turns out Jack had plenty of experience with false alarms.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_why follow me to higher ground,  
lost as you swear I am?_  
  
After you’d ‘lived’ in the AfterDeath for a while, you could see things a little more clearly, even when you didn’t understand them. Every new person who arrived in the AfterDeath brought pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and watched as those who’d been there the longest would try to force them to fit. But when you’re doing a jigsaw puzzle on a picnic table…it’s a losing proposition. So after giving it the ol’ college try, everyone told their stories instead; they weren’t all true, but they became shared history anyway, even if some of them were the stuff of urban legends…  
  
Like the other suicide in your midst—a Kenneth Reichert—a murderer by all accounts. Double jeopardy was no safeguard in the AfterDeath; Reichert spent his days alone or in the kitchen with Jack. No one wanted him around, Vic explained, because every time he walked by, all of the televisions would go off.  
  
It seemed ironic to you that a man could leave his life, shed his earthly skin, and still be as addicted to television as he was when he was alive.  
  
And then there was Dusty, a calm, sweet, centered woman who told you how it was Vic who came for her, how she was so thrilled to see him, how she was able to confirm for him (and had to on a regular basis, thanks to Jack) that Michael had survived the bombing, that she’d crossed over by herself.  
  
And then Ruth had her story, the one she told over and over as if she expected a different ending, as if she hadn’t already told you ten times…  
  
“It happened not long after Jack got here,” she said. “The first time I was called up. I was so nervous; I’d never been before. I didn’t know what to do.” It was always the two of you alone at a table at that moment, and Ruth looked around nervously before she continued, “I don’t even know if I’m supposed to tell anyone this. I haven’t really told anyone before…but I think for some reason I can tell you.”  
  
You reached across the table (every single time) and held both of her hands, “I won’t tell anybody.” Her fingers were ice cold. Always.  
  
“You have to promise me, Leo.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
And after you reassured her, she’d launch into the same story—how Jack sent her on a wild goose chase with no name, how she ran and ran and ran trying to find someone, anyone, and ended up back where she started, her mission unsuccessful and no one by her side. How she’d come back and grilled Jack about what he’d seen, and how he’d tell her over and over that he gave her all the information he had, and that, “It’s not my fault you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, Ruth.”  
  
When she’d recount the story to you, her analysis of it always had the same theme, “I think it’s because I’m a failure, Leo. I’m being punished.”  
  
“Punished for what?” you asked.  
  
She’d glance over in Emma’s direction and then back at you, “For taking my own life.”  
  
……  
  
And then a year or so later, according to Ruth, she was summoned again, only this time she had a name—spelled out in alphabet soup, _JASON_.  
  
“Going to get him,” she told you, “It was a lot like the first time; it felt almost the same, only this time I had a name, so I just ran as fast as could calling for him and then I saw him, standing there waiting for me. He reeked of garbage,” she said. “And I don’t know why, Leo,” she’d lean in and whisper to you, “But they always send me to get the children.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_it's even worse than it appears_  
  
You worried about Ruth, and it felt strange to do that considering her life had already ended and there didn’t ever seem to be physical danger in the AfterDeath. Every time you were near her, you felt yourself soaking in her grief. Her sadness baffled you; hadn’t the worst already happened? Why fear anything in this place?  
  
You figured if you could build and run a billion dollar company like Brown Athletics for thirty-some years that you could certainly help a woman overcome with melancholy. And things were going pretty well until the day Jack rang the bell and said the words that no one in the AfterDeath ever wanted to hear:  
  
“RUTH HARPER, ORDER UP!”  
  
Instantly, tears began to stream down her face soaking her nightgown. The game of Black Jack that you were playing with her and Vic, Emma, and Sandra came to a standstill. You tried to help, “Ruth, ignore him. He’s just fucking with you—"  
  
“RUTH HARPER, ORDER _UP!”_  
  
Ruth rose from the table, ignoring anything that you were saying and started walking towards the pick up counter, her wet nightgown leaving a trail of water, tinged with pink. She returned with a cake lit with two burning candles, shaking as she put it on the picnic table right on top of the cards. The five of you stared at it; there was no name on it anywhere.  
  
“I don’t know what to do, Leo,” she whispered to you.  
  
This wasn’t a story she was retelling.  
  
You were furious at Jack for taunting her, so you got up, made Ruth sit down, and picked up the cake, determined to return it to the kitchen. But Chris was blocking you. “Sit down,” he demanded. You were ready to object, to finish this bullshit with him and Jack once and for all. You didn’t have any idea how to kill a dead man, but you were going to figure it out if it was the last thing you ever did.  
  
And then as you were sitting the cake down, one of the candles went out, the smoky scent hovering above the table. Ruth grabbed your arm, pulling you back down beside her, and pointed at the cake, “Leo, look. Oh god.”  
  
Half of the chocolate cake was covered in baby blue icing: _ALLEY._  
  
Ruth collapsed.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_give me a word  
give me a sign  
show me where to look  
tell what will I find_  
  
“Wake her up, wake her up!” Emma screamed at you, shaking your arm like that was going to help, but Ruth was getting heavier and heavier; you could feel her slipping out of your arms. Sandra grabbed her feet as if suggesting that the two of you should count to three and just toss Ruth into the path of incoming spirits.  
  
“No!” you snapped at her. “We can’t do that.”  
  
“Well, we have to do something, Leo,” Emma said. “She has to go get him—"  
  
But there was no time to formulate a plan; the bell had rung again.  
  
“TATE, ORDER UP!”  
  
You froze where you were with your pair of existential fag hags as Tate walked up to the table, methodically, slowly, the way a hospice nurse delivers the lethal dose of morphine to end someone’s misery. Your eyes glanced down at the cake as hers did. The second candle had gone out and pink icing was rising up from inside the cake: _MADELINE._  
  
You looked at Vic for some sort of explanation, but he just shrugged his shoulders, “Don’t know.”  
  
Tate ignored all of you, moving Sandra and Emma out of her way, kneeling down, picking Ruth up in her arms, and walking away with her like Ruth was made of blown glass and not cement. It took you a while to close your mouth, to stop staring at Tate as she carried Ruth into a fog.  
  
“What do we do now?” you asked.  
  
“I guess we wait,” Vic said.  
  
……  
  
Jack emerged from the kitchen and took Ruth’s place at the table. He lit a cigar, puffed a few times, and then glanced at Ruth’s un-played hand. You knew she was holding at seventeen; Ruth was never very good at hiding her cards. He tapped his huge fingers on the table top front of Vic and smiled, revealing rows of yellowed teeth,  
  
“Hit me.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I am one of those melodramatic fools_  
  
Alan’s passing and subsequent arrival in the AfterDeath breathed new life into Ruth. She smiled so often, she hardly looked like the same woman. Even Tate’s stern exterior softened as she played with Madeline, tossing her up in the air and letting her float back down into her arms. You’d watch her sometimes, watch her tell Madeline, “You look just like your mother, baby girl. Just like her. Your mother, she was a mess, too--just like you are.” Madeline would squeal as if she understood everything that was being said. For all you knew, maybe she did.  
  
But when Alan’s televisions wouldn’t go off, not even for a short while, Ruth began to get agitated, began going around to all of the women for help. Ruth went to Emma first and to your surprise, Emma agreed to try, but after walking over and sitting down on the ground next to Alan, she never came back. Ruth began to pace around the picnic table; she was making you dizzy, so you reached out and stopped her,  
  
“Ruth, stop. You’re giving me a headache.”  
  
“Where’s Sandra going?” she asked. You turned your head and saw Sandra walking toward Emma and Alan. You called to her, but she didn’t answer. Their quiet gathering and Ruth’s anxiety was making you feel deathly claustrophobic. “I’m not going over there, Leo,” she said.  
  
“You don’t have, too. You can sit here with me.” While you were talking, your eyes were everywhere but on her. Jack had gotten up and was walking toward Alan and Vic wasn’t far behind. “Ruth, I need to ask you something,” you said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why’d you lie to Alan when he crossed over? Why’d you tell him that this place was all sweetness and light, that all your questions had been answered in some warm breeze or something?”  
  
She immediately got defensive, “He’s just a little boy, Leo.”  
  
……  
  
You looked over at Alan again; he was on his feet again, standing tall. “No, he’s not, Ruth.”  
  
……  
  
“I told you, Leo. They always send me to get the children.”  
  
……  
  
Ruth would believe that for a little while longer until it was no longer an option to sit at the picnic table. Your presence in front of the TV screens was mandatory.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_letting the days go by  
let the water hold me down  
letting the days go by  
water flowing underground _  
  
Less than an hour after vacating the tunnels, you stood on the tile floor in your bathroom at The Regency while Brian peeled your clothes off, bit by disgusting bit and stuffed yours and his into a plastic trash bag. “You know what this reminds me of?” you asked him. He was kneeling on the floor, having just taken your shoes off, “What?”  
  
“My mother. Anytime Molly and I came in the house after playing in the snow, my mother would make us stand in the kitchen as she took off our wet clothes and put them in the dryer.”  
  
“Well, these aren’t going in the dryer; they’re going in the trash.”  
  
“And she’d usually have blankets warming in the dryer so we could wrap up in them and drink hot chocolate and watch TV.”  
  
“I’m fresh out of marshmallows.”  
  
And then the two of you were facing off under the opposing spray of dual shower heads, standing quietly while the water ran over you, melting the stench and grime off your bodies and down the drain. Half an hour later, the water silenced, Brian looked at you as you were drying off and said, “Do you feel clean?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Me neither.”  
  
So he ran a very hot bath which you joined him in, an attempt to soak the morning away. Your skin sizzled when you stepped into the tub, but less than a minute later you were comfortable, leaning back against Brian, your hand hovering over his as he ran a tiny bar of hotel soap up and down your chest. And again it was quiet.  
  
Quiet, but not quite peaceful.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You know what this reminds me of?” you asked him.  
  
“Our jacuzzi?”  
  
“No. The time I jerked off in the swimming pool at our country club.”  
  
“What is it with you and all these little boy stories all of a sudden?” Brian asked.  
  
“I don’t know. You were untying my shoes before…popped into my head. Anyway, I was sitting on the first step in the shallow part--"  
  
“Playing with yourself?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What color was your bathing suit?”  
  
“Who cares? Red.”  
  
“Go on.” Brian knees were sticking up out of the bubbles, you rested your hands on them.  
  
“So, I was like twelve, maybe, and all of a sudden—"  
  
“You splooged on yourself?”  
  
“Do you want to tell this story?” you asked.  
  
“No. Go on…Splooge-meister.” You reached up behind you to smack him, but he caught your hand, dunking it back under the water, and then put his lips right behind your ear, “ _Don’t you ever try that again.”_  
  
“You love it.”  
  
And then he was wrapping his hand around your dick, perhaps hoping for an instant replay, “I’m listening.”  
  
“So, I came on myself, you know, by accident, so I immediately went underwater, but my cum didn’t.” Brian started to laugh. “I tried to swim away from it, but it wouldn’t leave me, and then it floated by this girl and she freaked and told the lifeguard, and he blew the whistle and made everybody get out of the pool.” Brian was really laughing by then; you could feel his chest moving against your back. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“What did your Mom do?” he asked.  
  
“She made me go sit in the car and went and got my father out of the clubhouse.”  
  
“Uh oh. Is this the scary part?”  
  
“So, it’s hot as hell and I’m sitting in the backseat of our van, wrapped in a towel, and watching through the window as my mom tells my father what I did. And then he got in the car, and then it was just me and him.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
You wrapped your hand around Brian’s forearm, keeping his hand underneath the water and between your legs, “He says to me, ‘Justin, is that the first time you’ve ever done that?’ and I think he means _in the pool_ , so I say yes, and then he says, ‘Well, if you can do that in cold water, son, you better be careful in the shower.’ And I’m thinking that I do it in the shower all the time—"  
  
……  
  
But that was the end of the story because Brian was kissing your neck and you were playing with his wet hair, pulling it through your fingers as you came, “I love you,” you said, closing your eyes as his chin rested on your shoulder.  
  
His breath tickled your neck when he whispered, “ _Not a little boy anymore, are you?”_  
  
“No.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_crash into me_  
  
You’d been back from New York for two months at that point and in that two months you’d gotten married, gone on a kitschy honeymoon, thrown condoms to the wind and paintings to the floor, been discriminated against by high-end appliances (and gnomes), discovered that it really is a small world after all—especially when Brian has anything to do with it, been given an American Express Gold Card with no limit and a vintage Corvette, painted in your brand new studio, fucked in your brand new bed, had your ass eaten, your dick sucked, and a complete physical examination by the world’s hottest, yet least qualified, doctor, lost a friend only to realize that you never really knew him, trekked through sewage—risked your life—to see what you needed to see, and wondered why your partner, the man who was holding you and kissing you at that very moment, had some kind of weird grudge against Anderson Cooper.  
  
The sheets were cool, but Brian was warm, and although you’d been fucking him for over a decade, you still got that flutter in your stomach when he kissed you in that way that always means _we’re not done yet_. And it would happen again and again in that hour as he took what he wanted from you and left you completely sated.  
  
The bite of the vampire…intimate and transforming…every single time.  
  
The price of inspiration.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_when I was seventeen…_  
  
Brian would always be the master of shock and awe in the bedroom and as you lay beneath him enjoying the fallout, you’d begin to see him as the shock absorber of your life as well. It was a cycle in your relationship that would play out again and again as the years went on, and even when he was responsible for the inciting event, he was equally as obligated to manage the aftermath—as far as he was concerned.  
  
It was hard for you to think of a moment that you’d ever spent with him that didn’t alter your life in some way. You were a naïve, headstrong kid when you met him, and every time you think about that instant, the next year begins to fly by in your mind’s eye like it’s racing to the finish line—the finish line that almost was.  
  
When it picks up again, you’re the proud owner of a high school diploma that was never given to you personally, but rather just hung on the wall as if you just deserved one for waking up or something. Your friends were packing for college; you were trying to pick up a paperclip. Daphne was swooning over the thought of meeting ‘all those older guys,’ and you were wondering why yours didn’t want to come over and play catch anymore.  
  
And then you found him and were invited into his lair for all the reasons you didn’t want but knew were inevitable—every pebble thrown in a pond eventually sinks.  
  
And again time accelerates and the picture begins to move again, not stopping until the audio has caught up with the image of you taking off your clothes in Brian’s office, smiling as he kisses you as if he wondered where you’d been all that time. Bygones are always bygones when his skin is melded with yours.  
  
And everything zooms by again until he loses his job because of you and never blames you for anything, and though you feel guilty, you never tell him because you know what he’ll say-- _I did it for me._  
  
And then, while the camera is focused on the wrong thing—Vic’s funeral—the scene you should be watching is playing out behind your back and once you realize this, you’ve already been ejected from the sidecar. And when you try to return, you feel it again, the other side of that knife, and it’s the passion behind the denial that makes you realize what’s really happening.  
  
Brian’s cancer will be cured because it’s not what’s killing him.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_when I was twenty-one…_  
  
There’s little time spent on small overtures in this film, and you can honestly say that when you returned from Hollywood and saw him panting in his own element that you began to truly believe in his immortality, began to believe that he could survive anything…  
  
Except a relationship.  
  
So this time, you planned your exit, timed it for dramatic effect at a moment when no one could accuse you of sins of omission. There was nothing standing in Brian’s way when he returned from Babylon that night—no boyfriends you were denying, no opportunities he didn’t know about--nothing.  
  
All of your cards were on the table.  
  
Face up.  
  
It was hard to admit, even to yourself, that walking out on him when he was horny and a little buzzed was the only way he would see himself for the teenager he was and see you for the one that you no longer were. And like any teenager who doesn’t get his way, he threw a holy fucking fit.  
  
You taught him something that night, taught him that he should allow you the courtesy you’d always extended to him—because it was never what Brian said that mattered, it was what he did. And the night while you listened to his drunken tirade from the top of the stairs, you knew you’d done the right thing.  
  
After all, the man was a superhero; he liked action.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_take these chances,  
place them in a box until a quieter time_  
  
And that Wednesday, at that moment, you wanted him to kiss you, to start out slow and let your body encourage him to make it last a little longer; you wanted to pull back a little and make him chase you, to smile back at you when you smiled at him.  
  
You wanted to forget the morning, forget the upcoming funeral, forget the echoes of yourself you felt underground and just be his for awhile. Belonging to Brian even for a moment was a surefire panacea—then and now. So when he held your head still and breathed into your ear, “ _Eat your pretty, little ass,”_ you felt an electrified peace push its way out of you, making your eyes close as his mouth skimmed down your torso, your cock, and then you felt words being steamed into your thighs, but couldn’t remember what they were.  
  
His tongue—a welcome and slick violation.  
  
“ _Brian.”_  
  
His hands were wrapped around your legs, and you could feel them tightening when he wanted to be back inside you, and in a motion so quick you could’ve easily denied it, you pressed him down, keeping him between your legs, and came hard all over your chest, letting the exhaustion--the real fatigue of it all--win out. He took you like you were the teddy bear he’d just won at the State Fair—a conquest but not an unexpected one--fucked you with far less finesse, but a lot more force.  
  
He smothered you when he came, and the two of you lay in the tangled sheets breathing in unison until he lifted his head, smiled, kissed you, and reached for a cigarette in one fluid motion. He smoked it while he was still inside you.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_come as you are_  
  
So there you were, lying in bed with Brian, little more than a foot apart at any given time, his leg crossed over yours and creeping up and down your thigh—his way of reminding you that he appreciates the pleasure you bring him. Sometimes there’d be a moment when he’d reach and touch your face which always meant that he was going to kiss you, so you'd instinctually turn your head to meet his, and when you did, his hand would slide down your shoulder, your arm, and rest on your lower back as his leg pulled you closer--drawing you into his web.  
  
You lay there, comfortably spun in his arms, pressing your hand against his chest, and when his breathing became laced with expectation, you let your fingers drift down to his stomach. And then he cheated, letting his hips rise into your hand, but that was perfectly fine with you because you wanted to indulge him. He wasn't even hard anymore, but you knew he wanted to be.  
  
When his hips had risen, your bodies had re-aligned and you were facing his chest then, and when you began to kiss the definition etched into it, he cheated again, steering your face so that your mouth was covering his nipple, and then you felt what you knew was coming, what you'd been waiting for--that heavy pressure on the back of your head meaning he wanted more. So you let him feel your teeth every so often, his body stiffening, moaning, his cock hardening in your hand.  
  
And then you spoke, your voice a whispered invitation, "Roll over."  
  
He hesitated, not because he didn't want to, but because he was kissing you again, hard and intense, and you had to end it, your lips a hair's breath from his when you told him again, "Roll over."  
  
……  
  
The first time you sketched Brian he was nothing like he was underneath you right then. He was beautiful but at a distance, and you were sketching to bring him closer to you. And even though your intention wasn’t to show it to him, you drew it with his approval in mind. That feeling surfaced again the first time you fucked him—a lazy Saturday afternoon when he’d come home from the gym to find you a little drunk and playing with yourself in his bed…  
  
Brian was much more tolerant of your behavior after the prom, laughing at you as he put his gym bag away, and then picking up your pain pills off his nightstand and asking, “You’re not mixing the two, are you?”  
  
“No,” you said, shaking your head.  
  
“I’m going to take a shower.”  
  
“Okay.” And then you burped and busted out laughing.  
  
He took off his gym shorts and threw them at you. They landed right on top of your head.  
  
When he emerged from the shower, you’d used them to wipe the cum off your stomach. “Here,” you said, trying to hand them back to him. “I’m done.”  
  
“What do I look like, your fucking mother?”  
  
“You don’t look anything like my mother,” you assured him. “Not even when she doesn’t shave.”  
  
Brian was laughing as he was walking—completely naked and halfway dried off—to the kitchen, “I’m going to have a nice cold beer and then I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, Sunshine.”  
  
“Whoopee.” He watched you from the kitchen as you flopped onto your stomach. “I’m all ready.”  
  
He walked back over, sat his empty bottle on the night table, put on a condom and kneeled between your legs all without saying a word. Your knees dug into the mattress as he lifted your hips, and when you were nice and steady, he pushed deep inside you with one hard thrust. It made you dizzy; your head fell into your hands.  
  
And then he didn’t move.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill_  
  
Art is about exploiting an ordinary moment, making it hold still so you can make it extraordinary, and advertising is about making that moment undeniably irresistible and that moment when Brian was hard and fixed inside you was the inception of the two. You were the way; he was the means. It was a truth that would always exist between you and hover over circumstance.  
  
When his hand started to move along your stomach and you knew he was going to touch you and that your mind was about to explode like a fountain of pleasure, you almost wanted to tell him to stop, to stay like that just a little bit longer. He may have been reading your mind because all he did was stroke you, holding your hips perfectly still, and you really thought that he was going to make you come like that and that was a deal your body wasn’t willing to make. When your hips dared to move, he let out a deep breath, loosened his hold on them, and let you take it. His hand and his cock were all yours and you took such advantage of the situation that you made him come right before you did, right before you literally collapsed underneath him.  
  
You were sleepy then because afternoon whiskey can do that to you, so you fell asleep next to him and when you woke up, he was still there, only he was way stoned and smiling at you.  
  
“Fuck, what time is it?” you asked.  
  
“Quarter to three.”  
  
“How long have I been asleep?”  
  
“You’ve been snoring for sixty-eight minutes,” Brian said.  
  
“You’re fucking high.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“I have to pee.” You tripped over his cum-crusted gym shorts on the way to the can and cursed when you stubbed your toe, “Fuck!” It was then that you saw an empty bag of (your) Doritos on the floor next to the bed. “Did you eat my fucking Doritos?”  
  
Brian smiled, “Yep.”  
  
“You hate Doritos.”  
  
“I was bored. You were asleep.” (So, it was your fault.)  
  
“You were stoned,” you yelled at him over your valiant stream of urine. When you returned to bed, Brian was still lying there smiling, and you were still grouchy, “I can’t believe you ate the whole bag.”  
  
“I’ll make it up to you.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” you huffed at him as you presented him with your very cold shoulder.  
  
“I will.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
And then he kept his word, “Wanna fuck me?”  
  
……  
  
It got so quiet in the room that you could hear the sunbeams burning the sheets.  
  
……  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
“What the fuck are you smoking?”  
  
“Yes or no?”  
  
You turned back over so you wouldn’t have to keep trying to converse with him over your shoulder, “Are you serious?”  
  
“The next word out of your mouth better be ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or I’ll eat all of your Cheetos, too.”  
  
……  
  
What the hell did you have to lose?  
  
“…Yes.”  
  
And then you sort of freaked out a little because you hadn’t really thought much about it before considering you never really thought it would happen, wishful thinking, no need to jinx yourself and all that, but then it was time, and all you could think was…fuck, you couldn’t think at all. It was like your brain had been unplugged or something.  
  
……  
  
“Why are you freaking out?” Brian asked you.  
  
“I’m not,” you lied.  
  
“Then why does your dick look so scared?”  
  
Your dick? You’d forgotten all about your dick. This had something to do with your dick?  
  
“Looks to me like it ducked into the Prophylactic Protection Program,” Brian told you.  
  
“You think you’re really hilarious when you’re high, but you’re really not.”  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Okay, maybe I just can’t do this. I don’t know.”  
  
Brian rolled onto his side, one leg bent, one leg straight, his head resting on his palm, “Do you want to do it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So, you’re just nervous.” Why do people try to apply reason to things like this?  
  
And then he started to touch you, and his hands have always been like a goddamn truth serum, and you just started running your mouth, “It’s not that I just want to fuck you.” (It made no fucking sense, but you knew what you meant.)  
  
“You can buy me dinner, too, if you want. And by that, I mean, I’ll let you carry the credit card.”  
  
“Brian.”  
  
“What? You can’t afford me on a twink’s salary, trust me.”  
  
“Please stop fucking around.”  
  
“Okay.” And then he made a funny face at you, and when you laughed, he apologized. “Okay, no more.”  
  
……  
  
And then his voice got much softer, a tone you rarely heard before the sun went down, “What do you want?”  
  
You closed your eyes and just told him, “I want to make you feel like you make me feel.”  
  
And then you opened them again and he was still there.  
  
He didn’t say anything; he just closed the space between the two of you, tucking you underneath him, his thigh resting between yours as he kissed you. You stayed in his arms, making out, until the sun began to set.  
  
He handed you a condom, lying on his stomach when the sky was filled with orange, but you didn’t unwrap it right away, running your hand on the inside of his leg instead, showing him what a good student you’d been all along. Your dick was unbelievably hard when you were rimming him because you knew that you were going further this time, and when you were finally ready and much more gentle with him than you needed to be, you pushed inside him, all the way inside him and then you didn’t move.  
  
Your arms covered his, holding his hands as you kissed the back of his neck, and even though it was getting dark very quickly, you could see the smile on his face. “I like this,” you told him.  
  
“It certainly doesn’t suck.”  
  
“Is this going to be the only time I’m ever allowed to do this?” you asked. (Why is it when you win the lottery, you have to know—instantly—how much?)  
  
“Hard to say.”  
  
……  
  
“Was that an answer or a metaphor?”  
  
“I’ll refer you to my earlier answer.”  
  
……  
  
It was time to leave the starting gate.  
  
Granted, the race was over quicker than you’d hoped, but you’d still come out a winner.  
  
And a lifetime fan of Doritos.  
  
……  
  
The ordinary moment that was standing still for you right then in your hotel room was the man you loved reaching back and guiding your hip as you pushed inside him, an exercise in ceremonial control and one that quickly fell away as you fucked him, your thighs tucked inside of his, his on the perimeter bracing for both of you. You were able to prolong your orgasm, to really enjoy being inside him, to watch his face reflect the pleasure he was experiencing.  
  
“Can you come again?” you asked him because it felt like he could, but you weren’t really sure.  
  
You felt his entire body tense, preparing himself, as he answered you, “Yeah.”  
  
“’Kay.”  
  
And then, compliments of Brian Kinney, you really had something to fuck.  
  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_as restless as we are_  
  
As all of you arrived in front of the televisions—you, Alan, Ruth, Emma, Sandra, Jack, Chris, Vic, and Tate with little Madeline—the display began to change. Instead of all of the screens focusing on one thing, they began to differentiate into nine different feeds.  
  
“This has never happened before,” Vic said.  
  
Those who’d been in this place longer than you and Alan—you could feel their nervousness, felt like something strange was about to happen. And then it did—the sound went off. All nine televisions had gone mute. Alan tried to turn the sound back on, and it wouldn’t work, he smacked the remote, “Thing’s a piece of shit. Needs new batteries.”  
  
Chris laughed, “Don’t need batteries here, duh.”  
  
And then the remote was passed down the line to each person who tried to get it to work, and everyone had pretty much given up hope when Ruth passed it you. You hit the volume UP arrow and one of the soundtracks came back on line. You stared at your hand in disbelief, not knowing how you did that, but everyone else was staring at the audible TV.  
  
“Who’s that guy, Leo?” Alan asked.  
  
You looked up, not really sure what (or who) to expect…  
  
It was Nate sitting by himself in a row of airport chairs, the kind that are strung together side to side and front to back, wrapping and unwrapping a long, skinny string of red licorice around his finger…  
  
*********************  
**SARAH ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
  
_explain the change,  
the difference between  
what you want,  
and what you need _  
  
After you’d hijacked Nate’s morning massage and given him a happy ending to boot, you walked with him back to your suite. He lay on the sofa with his head in your lap and spilled his guts…  
  
“It’s just—"  
  
“Just what, Nate?”  
  
He started again, “I’m not comfortable talking about it because it makes me feel like an ungrateful shit.”  
  
“Okay, let’s put that aside for a few minutes.”  
  
“Amnesty on that?” he asked.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
He took a deep breath; you could feel a confession coming on, “I don’t think I want to do this.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
……  
  
“Run Brown Athletics.”  
  
……  
  
Your fingers bunched on his stomach, “You don’t?”  
  
“I’m not happy.”  
  
You unbuttoned one of his shirt buttons and slid yours fingers underneath the fabric, “What about it is not making you happy?” He didn’t say anything, so you poked him your with finger, “Tell me.”  
  
“I’m lonely,” he finally admitted. “I miss the way it used to be.”  
  
“You miss Leo?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, and I miss being second in command.”  
  
“Well, that’s understandable. It’s a big adjustment. I mean, it wasn’t like you knew when Leo was going to pass or that you were going to inherit the company. It was a bit of a shock, and sometimes, shocks take awhile to recover from.”  
  
He reached underneath his shirt and held your hand, “See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it because you make it sound so rational and expected and it doesn’t feel rational and expected to me. It feels awful.”  
  
“And you want to feel awful right now?”  
  
“You should probably just ignore me.”  
  
……  
  
You left Nate so you could begin to remedy the situation and to let him sleep off his massage. While you were booking your afternoon flight and hotel room for New York City, you wondered why you hadn’t seen this coming. Nate grew up in a resort where he was constantly surrounded by people who were essentially guests, people who his parents knew because they catered to them. He was never just seeking approval from his parents, but rather, from the greater North American skiing community. He was everyone’s child, everyone’s graduate, everyone’s success story.  
  
Leo’s death had left a huge crater inside him that he was able to hide from you at first because Leo’s estate had to be settled, decisions had to be made, hiring and firing had to be done. But now that everything had settled down, Nate realized that the dust settling was, in fact, hiding a desert.  
  
It really is lonely at the top.  
  
But you knew you could help him through his, make him feel better—one way or the other.  
  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_that little faggot is a millionaire_  
  
When Nate and Sarah boarded the plane, the sound accompanying their image went off again. “Who’s that man?” Jack asked.  
  
“His name is Nate Rockford,” you said, “He was—apparently--the unfortunate beneficiary of my athletic apparel empire.”  
  
“Don’t be a drama queen,” Vic said. (Turns out pity parties weren’t well attended in the AfterDeath.) “He’s grieving. You have no idea the shit some of my relatives did when they were trying to move on—fucking Nightmare Before Christmas every day of the year.”  
  
“It’s true,” Emma added, coming over to hug you, “My son, Daniel, he ate an entire Whitman’s Sampler every morning for a week after I died.”  
  
Sandra, not to be outdone, came closer also, holding your hand, “And that’s _drugstore chocolate,_ Leo.”  
  
Emma glared at her best friend, “Well, it’s certainly more appropriate comfort than fucking a _priest._ ”  
  
You half expected Jerry Springer to cross over at that moment.  
  
……  
  
But he didn’t.  
  
……  
  
“Okay, moving on,” Vic said.  
  
……  
  
The women had positioned you between them which you thought was probably a good idea.  
  
The remote was passed down the line again and this time it only worked for Ruth, the fact alone startling the shit out of her. When the sound came on, everyone could hear:  
  
“ _Not a little boy anymore, are you?”  
  
“No.”_  
  
“Fuck. This,” Jack said, trying to walk away, but his steps were fruitless; he was walking in place. “I don’t have to stand here and watch this bullshit.” (It was kind of funny because, actually, he did.)  
  
“What’s your fucking problem?” you asked him.  
  
“My son’s a goddamn fairy; that’s my fucking problem. A fact I’m already very aware of.”  
  
You corrected him, “ _Your son_ is King Midas. Everything that man touches turns to gold.”  
  
“Including Justin,” Alan said.  
  
“Is that his name?” Ruth asked, pointing at the screen in front of her. She kept walking closer and closer to it as if her eyes were suddenly failing her.  
  
“Yeah, Mom. He’s my friend; he’s the artist I was telling you about.”  
  
But Ruth was less interested in Alan’s answer and more interested in pressing her hand against the TV screen as if the static electricity was pumping her full of something she needed. Alan looked at you, worried and confused, so you walked up behind her and put your hand on her shoulder, “Ruth, are you okay?”  
  
She didn’t look at you when she answered your question; she just kept staring at her hand, “He’s the one, Leo. He was my false alarm.”  
  
  
Lyrics taken from the Grateful Dead’s _Touch of Grey_ twice, Collective Soul’s _December_ , the Grateful Dead’s _Touch of Grey_ again, Collective Soul’s _Shine_ , Green Day’s _Basket Case_ , the Talking Heads’s _Once In A Lifetime_ , the Dave Matthews Band’s _Crash Into Me_ , Frank Sinatra’s _It Was a Very Good Year_ twice, the Dave Matthew's Band _Ants Marching_ , Nirvana’s _Come As Your Are_ , Seal’s _Kiss From a Rose_ , the Smashing Pumpkins’s _1979_ , REM’s _I Believe_ , and Dire Straits _Money for Nothing_.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)  



	36. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 33-Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 11/5/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 33-CONVERGENCE**  
  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_in a boy’s dream_  
  
_He fucks you every night in your bed, and you’re only thirteen years old, but you don’t care about the age difference because you love him. Sometimes it seems like too much and it makes you cry, but he doesn’t know. You don’t cry because it hurts or because you want him to stop; you cry because you know it’s going to end, that when you wake up in the morning, he’ll be gone. When he kisses you, he never complains about your braces; when he looks at you, you’re always handsome. Sometimes after he fucks you, he gets up to go to the bathroom—just walks out your bedroom door, down the hallway, and into your bathroom completely naked. Once, your father passes him on his way to your room and doesn’t even say anything to him…  
  
“Why are you still up, Sonny Boy?”  
  
The bendy light that clips to your bed frame—you reach up over your head and turn it off, hiding your body from him. “I was reading,” you lie.  
  
“School tomorrow,” he says, passing your visitor in the hall once again, just as oblivious as the first time. It scares you—the darkness, not your father-- because when the light goes off, you can really see yourself—your body—all grown up.  
  
Before getting back into your twin bed with you, your invisible friend holds the sheet up over your body, as if he can see it better in the darkness as well, “You’re all leg, you know that?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He laughs and you make room so he can lie back down beside you. He’ll leave as soon as you fall asleep.  
  
You spend all day in school the next day with this gnawing thing in your stomach which feels like hunger but isn’t. It’s emotion. You ignore it.  
  
……  
  
You’ve told no one about this, and the one time that your mother walks into your room after you’ve gone to bed, he shoots her before you can even scream at her for invading your privacy. She bleeds like a fountain of raspberry lemonade in your doorway but still makes you breakfast the next morning. Every day when you come home from school, the sheets have been changed.  
  
It doesn’t take you long to realize the evil truth about things like this—that love is like money—the more you get the more you want. A human without ambition—physically impossible. So you decide to find him, to see him in daylight.  
  
He doesn’t go to a school like yours; he goes to an  Academy, and you’re so skinny that you can hide behind an ancient tree when the bell rings and watch him come down the front steps with his friends who are all bumming cigarettes off of him and then he smiles that smile you saw the first night he climbed in your bedroom window. His best friend is the star of the football team, and (as he’s always telling you), “A total fag, but in the closet.” Sometimes you stare at the door to your closet and wonder what he’s doing in there.  
  
So as he walks down the steps of the school laughing and joking with a girlfriend, you get brave and pop out from behind the tree and he sees you at the exact moment you say, “Hey.”  
  
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He’s not smiling anymore.  
  
“I thought that…”  
  
“You thought what?”  
  
“…That, like, maybe we could hang out.”  
  
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he asks you.  
  
“No,” you tell him, but you don’t sound very convincing.  
  
He tells his girlfriend to fuck off for a minute and walks closer to you which makes you back up and when you do, you back into the tree and it’s lowest branches slither forward wrapping around you and pinning you against the trunk for your lover’s perusal. You feel panicky and hard; beads of sweat scream as they wiggle free from your pores and plummet to the ground. A button pops off your Izod shirt and lands in the grass.  
  
“Listen to me,” he says, “Are you listening?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m not fucking you. I’m molesting you. You’re a fucking kid.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Basically, I’m raping you every night.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
He shakes his head at you like you’re an idiot, and you start to feel something like shame in the back of your throat, so you swallow it. It burns.  
  
And then his backpack is on the ground next to him, and he’s gotten as close as he can get to you and your eyes flit to the right for a second, and you can see a crowd of his friends watching him (not you), and then you look in his blue eyes again, and they’re closing and his hand is on the outside of your jeans, running down the path of your fly, and he whispers in your ear, “I’m not your lover; I’m not your friend; I’m just the guy who wants to suck your cock and fuck your tight little ass and break your heart. Understand?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Is that what you want?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You need help.”  
  
……  
  
The tree doesn’t let go of you until he’s put a sidewalk between you, and when it does, you pick up your backpack and start walking away, with only one glance over your shoulder to see him with his friends, having clearly forgotten all about you. And right when you can feel yourself about to fall apart, a car horn honks—a squeaky honk, like a clown car—and you look down on the road and there’s a shiny black Volkswagen Beetle, and a guy leans across the front seat, pops the door open for you and yells,  
  
“Yo, Boss Man, come on!”  
  
So you walk down the hill, almost slipping on the grass and get in the car, and there’s a guy in the backseat with a little wooden table and a deck of cards and he keeps telling you to ‘find the lady, find the lady’ over and over. And when the driver floors it, it’s not a Beetle anymore, but a hearse with a V-8 engine flying sixty miles an hour down some residential street only to barely come to a screeching halt in front of a woman holding a clipboard, wearing wiry glasses, and holding her hand out like she’s directing traffic. The hearse lurches forward when it stops, but the woman remains steadfast. You heart is in your throat.  
  
“Get out of the car,” the driver tells you. You feel betrayed all of a sudden. Ejected.  
  
“Looks like you found the lady,” the magician says, like he’s proud of you or something.  
  
And right when you’re about to ask what’s going on, your door is being opened for you by the clipboard lady who you now realize is a doctor in a nice, crisp white jacket who’s smiling at you, “Come with me.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I’m not crazy,  
I’m just a little unwell_  
  
“Where are we going?” you ask her as the hearse speeds away.  
  
“Somewhere nice,” she says, securing a straight jacket around you. She tells you it’s top of the line, made just for you. And then she holds onto your arm and the two of you walk down the street, right on the yellow line, and the day is bright and the sky is clear and it’s about seventy-two degrees and she smells like rubbing alcohol. You walk for a long time and all of a sudden it’s nighttime and you’re walking through downtown Pittsburgh and she stops with you across the street from a nice hotel that you’ve seen commercials for on TV. There are tons of teenagers filing inside in their Sunday best, music blaring, girls laughing in that way they do when they’re a little drunk.  
  
When she tugs on you because it’s time to leave, you look back at the hotel for as long as you can until you can’t see it anymore, and then a minute or so later, she stops in front of Babylon. There’s a huge line waiting to get in, but the doorman is the guy who was driving the hearse and he waves her in. He holds the door for both of you, but you get an uncomfortable feeling…like he’s forgotten who you are.  
  
The music is deafening, but no one inside seems the least bit concerned about a man in a straight jacket. Something hits you in the back. You turn around to see who threw it and it’s the Three Card Monty character from the hearse, standing on top of the bar. He’s juggling hacky sacks on one foot.  
  
The entrance to the backroom is bolted shut and the woman escorting you goes behind the bar and gets an axe and every man in the place clears space for her as she rares back, smashing the bolt with strength she shouldn’t have and then kicks the door open in her four hundred dollar pumps while you stand there completely useless. There are guys everywhere inside---getting fucked, getting their dicks sucks—all wearing straight jackets just like you.  
  
Again, her hand is on your arm, a gentle tug, and you feel this kindness dripping off her as she walks with you through the tunnels. The floor is slanted, just like the hill in front of his school, you think, and you swallow because you can feel yourself going lower…  
  
and lower…  
  
and lower…  
  
and something about this tells you this can’t be right.  
  
She stops at a door-- at a hidden door-- takes keys out of her coat pocket, and unlocks it for you, “This is your room. Someone will be here shortly to help you.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I am shielded in my armor,  
hiding in my room_  
  
You step inside, completely confused because you’re back in your own room, and you try to turn around and tell her there’s been a mistake, but she’s gone, the door has been closed and has dissolved into the wall. Your bed is there and the sheets are a mess, so you figure your mother must really be dead, but you want to lay on them anyway because they remind you of him. Your pants have disappeared, too, so you lie in your bed wearing nothing by a straight jacket, feeling like you’re going to cry, awash with a sadness unlike anything you’ve ever known.  
  
And then you see her, a little girl, bright-eyed and cross-legged on the end of your bed, a big book in her hands, a look of naive hope on her face.  
  
“Will you read to me?” she asks.  
  
“Why?” Your voice sounds low and tired and almost sick.  
  
“Because you need to go back to sleep,” she says.  
  
You tell her you can’t because you don’t feel good-- realizing then how much pain you’re in—that your muscles ache with regret. You tell her that you can’t because your arms are strapped to your body, that you couldn’t even use them if you wanted to.  
  
But your excuses do nothing but incite her, and, still smiling, she turns around and slides off your bed on her stomach and walks over so that she’s standing right in front of your face, laying the book on the bit of mattress between the two of you.  
  
“I’ll turn the pages,” she says. “Just read.”  
  
As you begin to read, as the pages turn with the help of her sticky fingers, the paint peels off the walls of your room, the carpet rolls up as if allergic to the floor, the closet door closes and then folds in on itself. You look at her face, but she isn’t afraid; she isn’t phased that the ceiling’s getting lower and lower, that the blades of your ceiling fan are coming dangerously close to both of you.  
  
“Keep reading,” she says anytime you pause. “Keep reading and you’ll fall asleep.”  
  
“The book’s almost over,” you tell her in some sort of protest. You feel like the child now, the one with no control.  
  
The legs of your bed fail, sending your mattress to the floor with a thud and still she tells you to keep reading so you do.  
  
……  
  
“This is the last page,” she finally tells you.  
  
But then, that’s not what you want; it’s what you fear.  
  
“Start over,” you demand.  
  
……  
  
But she won’t. And it isn’t her fault; it simply can’t happen. Can’t be done. She closes the book instead and leans forward to kiss you goodnight, painting your cheek with a candy-coated whisper, “Wake up, Brime Kinney. You’re ‘sleep.”_  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_don’t throw away your basic needs-  
ambiance and vanity _  
  
You’d hoped that fucking Brian’s rarely plowed ass would help you kick this weird feeling you’d been having since arriving back in the city, but all it really did was leave you exhausted and give Brian a well-spent ass--neither of which were really a problem in the grand scheme of things. Actually, that was kind of what was bothering you. As you tried to reconcile the events of the last couple of days, you constantly had pieces left over that you had no fucking clue what to do with. Like—  
  
while Alan was making scheduled runs to the surface to secure food for an entire community, you were trying to align yourself with Brian’s garbage disposal so the two of you could stage a coup d’etat and overthrow the rest of the appliance mafia…  
  
and…  
  
while Alan actually lived on a tightrope, pulled dangerously tight between the levels of society, you’d always had this idea in your head that that’s where you lived, on the fringe--in your great big house with your gorgeous, successful partner and your days virtually free of responsibility…  
  
and…  
  
while you wanted to smash your easel into a million pieces when your inspiration was stuck in traffic somewhere and never had the fucking decency to call to let you know it was going to be late, Alan was lining his pockets with it and breathing new life into it in a place you were never really sure (until that day) really existed.  
  
……  
  
Brian had fallen asleep after you fucked him, his head on your chest, so you lay on your back, fiddling with his hair, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly over your bed. When he woke up, he stared at you for a second like he had no idea who you were. “I fell asleep,” he mumbled, pushing up on his arms for a second as if that was the only way to out run the fugue.  
  
“You were napping,” you said, smiling at him, but he didn’t see your smile because he was looking over his shoulder at the ceiling fan like it’d just tapped him on the shoulder and screamed, ‘BOO!’ at him or something.  
  
“I was dreaming,” he countered as he faced you again, correcting you as he lay back down, his momentary confusion seeming to wane.  
  
“I fucked the shit out of you,” you pointed it.  
  
……  
  
“Was that comment really necessary?” he asked, the tip of his index finger drawing tracing a tiny path around your nipple.  
  
“Necessary? Well, no, I guess it wasn’t _necessary_ but…”  
  
……  
  
“But what?”  
  
……  
  
“Well, it’s just that…I can’t _apologize_ for it since that’s against our policy and all that.”  
  
“Oh, I see.”  
  
And then he pinched your nipple and when you complained, he feigned ignorance.  
  
……  
  
And then Brian’s leg—the one that was lying in between yours--started to move like he wanted something, and he began to take an interest in your body again, and you were starting to get interested in the interest he was taking when his head suddenly popped up off your chest, “Do you hear that?”  
  
“Hear what?”  
  
“That music.”  
  
“What music?” You couldn’t hear anything but traffic and the occasional elevator.  
  
“You really don’t hear anything?”  
  
You lifted your head up off your pillow as if that would make some big difference and stared at the door. “I don’t hear anything.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really. Why? What is it?”  
  
“It’s unmistakable. I’d know that sound anywhere.”  
  
“What? What sound?” Now he was just pissing you off.  
  
……  
  
“The Bionic Twat Hallelujah Chorus.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You know now that you mention it, Brian, I thought I heard something while I was fucking you, but all that begging you were doing…maybe that was drowning it out.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I have taught you well, young Grasshopper.”  
  
“Wax off.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_that’s great,  
it starts with an earthquake_  
  
Sometimes life feels like little more than constant preparation—to go to school, to graduate, to get a job, to fall in love, to settle down. Granted, your milestones had been modified by certain unique circumstances, and though some of them had been life-altering experiences (to say the least), there were many others that were nothing more than continental drifts, drifts that couldn’t even be measured until they were several years in the making.  
  
At that point in your life, you were just starting to understand that life wasn’t a series of earthquakes and aftershocks at all; it was much more akin to clouds floating aimlessly above your head—varying in frequency, consistency, shape and movement. They were so high above you, you were rarely conscious of them.  
  
……  
  
Brian was tired after your adventures in and out of the sheets that morning and after standing under the spray for a minute or so, he switched places with you and leaned against the far wall of the shower closing his eyes. He opened them when he felt you leaning against him, your soapy hand washing his chest. He stopped your hand and pulled it closer to his face.  
  
“There’s still red paint underneath your nails,” he said.  
  
“I know. It’ll wear off.” He released your hand, and you resumed your previous activities.  
  
……  
  
“You looked like you were having fun with it.”  
  
“I was,” you agreed. It’s really weird, though, not like anything I’ve ever done.”  
  
“Not the kind of thing they teach in art school, huh?”  
  
You laughed, “No, not hardly. But it’s amazing. I mean, that he and Alan could make those reproductions with spray paint. It blows my mind.”  
  
“It reminded me of that game [_Operation_](http://www.hasbro.com/miltonbradley/operation/%E2%80%9D),” he said. And then he pretended to be holding something between his fingers as he recited the game’s catch phrase, “It takes a very steady hand.”  
  
“Yeah, really. Not exactly something I have,” you laughed.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Brian took the soap out of your hand, rinsed himself off and shut off the water. “We should get dressed and go.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_the space between_  
  
People always say that college is the best time of your life, that although you go to get an education, the real lessons you learn are about growing up, being on your own, learning about responsibility, consequences, relationships, dealing with success and failure. But you didn’t exactly go to college.  
  
No. Instead, you came to New York City to be an artist, to make it big, make friends, make mistakes, to prove to yourself that you could do anything you set your mind to, and to quietly rape the place for inspiration that would hopefully last a lifetime. And when you left, you were convinced that that was exactly what you’d done.  
  
Mission accomplished.  
  
……  
  
You might as well have been in the cab by yourself as you and Brian rode back to Daniel’s, the proof of your connection to him evident only through your hand covering his on the seat between you. As you got closer to Daniel’s place, you spoke,  
  
“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to, Brian.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
……  
  
“It doesn’t feel fine,” you said, your voice quiet, trying to engineer privacy.  
  
“Just tired.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Did I upset you or something?” you asked.  
  
He turned his head, looked at you, and lied right to your face, “No, of course not.” And then he squeezed your hand—like his affection was some sort of consolation prize he was kind enough to award you.  
  
……  
  
And then it dawned on you that leaving the city wasn’t the end of something, it was the beginning. The years spent earning and learning your way on these streets weren’t the conclusion of anything; they were a training ground…for something.  
  
Mission accomplished?  
  
It’d only just begun.  
  
……  
  
It’s hard to understand how you can hear silence inside a taxi cab navigating its way through some of the busiest streets in the world, but you can.  
  
And so there you were--you and Brian--being driven by someone you didn’t know, virtually stuck in traffic, staring out opposite windows, creeping ever so slowly toward the same destination.  
  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_the television’s just a dream_  
  
In the AfterDeath, everyone is a rock star. Every arrival is announced and anticipated, every departure honored and mourned. And while that sounds a lot like life, the experience was much more communal in the AfterDeath—everyone’s actions, past and present, affected everyone else’s—and then, of course, there was the revolving door to contend with, but first…  
  
_“He’s the one, Leo. He was my false alarm.”_  
  
There was little time for elaboration because the end of Ruth’s sentence brought something new to the AfterDeath, something you’d never experienced before in this bizarre place: darkness.  
  
The televisions had all gone off, and although you’d never bothered to investigate the light source in your new home, whatever it was had abandoned all of you—except for Ruth. She was standing in a spotlight, a soft, quiet light, all by herself.  
  
“Mom, what’s going on?” Alan asked. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him next to you. You could feel all of them, everywhere.  
  
But Ruth was walking forward toward something only she could see, and once she spoke, everyone else could see it—or rather _him_ \--, too.  
  
Jason.  
  
As Ruth got closer to him, the circle of light enveloping her widened to include Jason and then you looked up at their faces. Ruth’s hair was finally dry; Jason’s was finally clean and he was smiling. He kept smiling as she spoke to him, “You were murdered, Jason. I came to get you because you were murdered.” It was a painful thing to admit, but still, you could hear the relief in Ruth’s voice as she said it, as she breathed the truth into her lungs.  
  
“I don’t have much time, Ruth. Things are happening very fast,” he told her.  
  
You’d understand later that though a dead man could often see and feel the events below, he was at a loss to control them.  
  
Ruth hugged him, told him that she didn’t want him to go, that, “I don’t even feel like I got to know you.”  
  
“You know everything you need to know,” he told her. And when he said that, she released him and turned toward you—you thought—but, no, she was looking at Alan, her arm reaching out, expanding the light to the tips of her fingers as she took his hand and pulled him closer to her. “They killed you, didn’t they, Alley?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mom.”  
  
“You’re all grown up now,” she said as she really looked at him. “You’re a man. A grown man.” She repeated herself as if doing so would convince her she was right.  
  
“Yeah, I guess I am,” Alan whispered.  
  
“I’m so proud of you,” she told him.  
  
“For what?” he asked.  
  
She didn’t answer him right away, and instead, they just stood in the light, holding one another for a long time while everyone else looked on, until the neon light of the diner began to flicker, slowly coming to life.  
  
“Shit,” Jack said, and the minute he stepped behind the counter, the fluorescents sputtered off and on above his head, finally glowing with a buzz that felt like an intrusion. You could smell breakfast cooking.  
  
“You were happy,” Ruth told her son, gifting her answer to him while the sound of sizzling bacon was starting to commandeer your senses. “You were really happy.”  
  
“Yeah, I was,” he admitted. “I had a great life.”  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_hanging by a moment_  
  
Death was just one thing after another, not the eternal rest you fantasized about when life got too complicated or your body got too weary. The concept of taking a ‘dirt nap’ was truly a falsehood; there was no shuteye in this place. But there was plenty of irony. To anyone who saw you while you were alive, you were just another homeless guy in New York City, but you never really felt that way because you had a home. Hell, you had a family. But this new place didn’t feel like home. It felt like one of the many train stations you’d slept beneath for all those years—busy and transient. You wondered if you’d ever get used to it.  
  
In the moments since the lights had gone off, since your mother had removed her hand from the screen Justin had occupied, taking the light with it, she’d changed. The aura of sadness that had hovered around her since you arrived was dissolving, turning into something else that felt different…something hard to define. So you closed your eyes as she held you and tried to focus, to let it come through you so you could understand it.  
  
_Compassionate determination._  
  
And then she spoke to you, but not out loud, just quietly through the channel you were sharing, _Your sister, she’s in trouble.  
  
I know._  
  
And then your mother started to cry, but they were Harper’s tears soaking both of you, arriving with a penetrating sensation of loss…not just grief…real loss…  
  
….loss  
  
_…lost._  
  
……  
  
And then you were interrupted, a reminder that you weren’t alone. It was Jason.  
  
“Ruth, I’m leaving now,” he said, and it was then that your eyes began to play ping pong—from Jack and his clanging pots and pans to your mother and Jason in your illuminated huddle—back and forth, back and forth.  
  
“Where are you going?” Ruth asked him.  
  
“Don’t know. I never know.”  
  
“You’ve done this before?” you asked.  
  
“Six or seven times, lost count.”  
  
……  
  
Were it possible, everyone in the AfterDeath would’ve sold their soul for a front row seat to what happened next: a Re-engagement, a bona-fide invitation to watch death’s revolving door. But they don’t sell tickets to those events because there’s little warning of their occurrence and they’re rarely the only thing happening at the time. Were the AfterDeath subject to a productivity analysis, it would no doubt come away with accolades for spiritual multi-tasking.  
  
Jason’s Re-engagement was no exception to this trend. He said little as he prepared himself, which basically consisted of him lining his feet up on some imaginary ledge until he felt they were in the right place, and then he spoke to you, which was apparently extremely rare in these situations. “Alan, come here.”  
  
Your mother let go of you, and you walked up to Jason, nervous but not really afraid. “What?”  
  
“Pay attention. This will probably be the only time you’ll ever see this.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“No, I mean the only time until it’s your turn.”  
  
“You mean I’m going back?” you asked him, suddenly paying much more attention to what was behind Jason, or rather below him—rooftops, city streets…Chicago?  
  
“You were murdered,” he said with a smile, “That’s an automatic do-over.” He looked so happy that you half expected Bob Barker to walk out in a midst of shredded, pastel confetti towing your brand new pop-up camper complete with a sexy prize-model wearing a bikini and a sash that read: _Being Murdered Rocks!_ ….  
  
……  
  
(And then you heard you mother, talking to Leo, “I let him watch way too much television.”  
  
“Five hundred years ago,” he said.  
  
You turned around and snapped at both of them, “I’ve been living in a _tunnel_ , thank you very much.”)  
  
……  
  
“When?” you asked Jason. “When will I go back?”  
  
“Don’t know. You’ll know when it’s time.”  
  
“How? A bat signal or something?”  
  
“It’s hard to explain, but you’ll be done here. You’ll just know.” You weren’t sure if you believed him or didn’t believe; it was all so strange, and then he added, “But hey, you never know; maybe I’ll see you around.”  
  
And with that he left and you watched—spellbound—as the laws of gravity applied to him—and only him--again, his arms out stretched as he fell back, a trust-fall into the universe, a vanishing crucifix plummeting into his new life. And then everyone was standing right behind you, all of you awe-struck in unison.  
  
“I think that’s only the third one I’ve ever seen,” your mother told you. “And I don’t want you to leave.”  
  
“I’m not leaving for a long time, okay?”  
  
“I know it’s my fault that we never had the chance to spend much time together, but I thought that now, since—"  
  
“Mom, it’s going to be a long time before I leave this place. Trust me.” And just to prove it to her, you went and stood on the very ledge Jason had fallen from, spread your arms out and fell backwards, landing flat on your ass. “See? There’s nowhere for me to go.”  
  
“Alan Harper,” she scolded you, “You just gave me a heart attack.”  
  
“Oh well,” you told her, “Good thing you’re already dead, huh?”  
  
……  
  
Dawn was beginning to break—as if it was actually morning--and your mother seemed tired, walking over to the picnic table to sit down.  
  
You were so caught up in Jason’s spectacle, in the revelation that you had a future, in becoming a son to your mother again, that you didn’t notice the sheer terror on Leo’s face. He was shaking, walking back from Jack’s window with a tiny fortune cookie on a dinner plate.  
  
His order was up.  
  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_come doused in mud,  
soaked in bleach_  
  
There had to be some mistake because you didn’t recognize the name on the wisp of paper inside the fortune cookie. Chris was with you because at the last minute Jack pulled you back, staring at the nine inch television screen in the kitchen, studying it, and then announcing, “Two man job. Chris, go with him.”  
  
“Aw, fuck. I don’t want to do this,” he bitched at Jack.  
  
“It has to be you,” Jack said.  
  
Chris grabbed the paper out of your hand, read it, and declared that he didn’t—quote, “Know who this motherfucker is either.” And then he stared at you like _what the fuck are you waiting for?_ , and the two of you started walking in the general direction everyone always walked in. Chris made idle conversation, which was usually best because you never knew how long you were going to have to walk…  
  
“So, explain to me how you can be a fag and be fat. I thought fags were more concerned about watching their figures than women are.”  
  
“I watch plenty of men’s figures. Just not my own,” you told him.  
  
“Freak,” Chris said, but he laughed for some reason.  
  
“Look, I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams. Doesn’t matter what I look like, anyone will bend over for money.”  
  
(The dead seem to have an affinity for speaking about themselves in the present tense. It’s annoying when you first arrive in the AfterDeath, but everyone gets used to it eventually and affords each other that sliver of denial as a souvenir of their former life.)  
  
“Ha, I wouldn’t,” Chris said.  
  
You laughed, “Whatever you say.”  
  
“Don’t get any ideas,” he warned you.  
  
“Don’t worry,” you told him, “I’m not usually attracted to the mangled.”  
  
……  
  
It wasn’t very hard to find your pick up location, Chris explained, because typically you just gave in to the forward tug until you came upon someone ‘who wasn’t from these parts.’ But that’s not what happened on your first pick up. On that errand, you came upon not one but five people waiting to be picked up. And they weren’t standing still behind an existential velvet rope waiting for a ride, they were lying everywhere, as if their bodies had been catapulted into the AfterDeath. And they’re eyes weren’t open. And they stank.  
  
“Maybe they’re not dead yet,” you whispered to Chris.  
  
Chris thought about that and then held his arm out as if holding you back from crossing the street and approached one of them, kneeling down and listening for a heartbeat. “Nothing,” he said, after a few seconds. “They’re dead.”  
  
“Okay, that solves one problem, but how are we going to get all five of them back to…our place?”  
  
“We’re not,” Chris said as he began to walk over and around the bodies, staring at them like he wished one of them would just sit up and shout, ‘I’m ready. Let’s go!’  
  
“We’re not?”  
  
“We were given one name. We’re taking one back.”  
  
“But what about the others?”  
  
“Someone else will come for them. They have nothing to do with us.”  
  
So the two of you would go back with one, but you still didn’t know which one. When you pointed this out to Chris, he was standing over one of them, a guy in the very back, pointing down at his face, “He’s our guy.”  
  
“Are you sure? You said you didn’t know him.”  
  
But Chris was kneeling again, fishing through the corpse’s pockets until he found the guy’s wallet. He opened it and showed it to you to prove to you that was right. “See?”  
  
You looked at your fortune and then back at the Kansas driver’s license. Chris was right; they were a match:  
  
_CODY BELL._  
  
……  
  
“You know this guy?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, I know him. On ‘three,’” Chris said as the two of you flung his body to the front of the group, “I just never knew his name.”  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_he liked to get shit-faced and keep the pace with thugs_  
  
You were sitting at the picnic table, having taken Leo’s place because Vic, Emma, and Sandra needed a fourth for Bridge, when you saw Leo and Chris returning with what looked a giant sack of potatoes flung over Leo’s shoulder. “Oh great,” Vic muttered when he saw what you saw, “We got a live one.”  
  
The smell arrived before Leo, Chris and the thing did, making Emma pull her flower-printed turtleneck up over her nose, muffling her response, “Vic, stop it. That’s the oldest joke I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“My heavens,” Sandra complained, “That’s the most putrid smell in the world.”  
  
But no one was paying any attention to of the resident fag hags by then because Leo and Chris had made it all the way back and were dumping their pick up on the ground in front of the televisions. The women got up and moved away, but you and Vic did the opposite, trying to see who or what had joined your group.  
  
Vic started talking to Leo and Chris, trying to place the guy’s face, to figure out how he knew him, but you were on the ground beside him, trying to figure out why he wasn’t moving, why he was the only dead person in the AfterDeath who actually looked dead. It didn’t take you very long to solve the mystery, “His body’s frozen solid.”  
  
“We know, Einstein,” Chris said. “We carried him.”  
  
“He wasn’t alone,” Leo told you. “When we got there, there were four other bodies, just like his.”  
  
“Wanna know why?” you asked them.  
  
“Sure,” Chris said, the way you tell a four-year-old that you believe him when he says there are monsters under his bed. “Enlighten us.”  
  
“Meth. Probably exploded pretty fucking close to him. Look at his hands. That’s why he smells. He’s gassing out.”  
  
“Why’s he frozen?” Leo asked.  
  
“The explosion didn’t kill him. They were icing him, trying to cool him off, bring his heart rate down. Didn’t work.”  
  
“Well, then his ass can lay here and thaw the fuck out then, can’t it?” Chris asked.  
  
But Leo had other concerns, “Do I still have to do the thing?”  
  
By that time, Jack had wandered up to see what all the commotion was about and told Leo, “Yeah, you have to do it right when they get here.”  
  
“Okay,” Leo said, picking up the remote control, “But I feel kind of stupid doing this to a guy who’s not even awake.” He bent down and laid the remote on Cody’s chest and then stood back up, “Cody Bell, welcome to the AfterDeath. I certainly wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances—"  
  
“Dude, that is not what you say,” Chris said, interrupting him.  
  
“Shut up,” Leo said. “Let me get this over with.” And then he continued, “We hereby officially inform you that you are dead. In recognition that I have dutifully informed you that you’ve crossed over, please accept this remote control.” Leo stopped, looked at everyone in the circle, and then said, “I guess we’ll just take that part for granted.”  
  
Everyone nodded.  
  
“Okay, so this remote control activates all nine televisions. There may be things that you want to see and things you don’t want to see, but, regardless, you will only see what you need to see.” And then Leo breathed a huge sigh of relief. “How’d I do?”  
  
“You brought a tear to my eye,” Jack said, “And that hasn’t happened since yesterday when I was chopping an onion.”  
  
“You’re a miserable fuck, you know that, Jack?” Leo said.  
  
“Can I get that stitched on my apron?”  
  
*********************  
**CHRIS HOBBS’S POV**  
  
  
_and we don’t know  
just where our bones will rest_  
  
Perhaps it was factually true that you’d led a privileged life—a good family, the best schools, winning teams, occasional scuffles with the law easily swept under the carpet, a good job, a beautiful wife, a darling baby boy. But if that was all true, then it was also true, by default, that you’d fared less well in the AfterDeath.  
  
Immediately after your arrival in the existential waiting room, you’d watched as your wife, Meredith, visited your grave every day for the first week with your son, Ryan, bundled up in her arms. If the ground was dry, she’s often sit down on the grass with Ryan in her lap, until it got too cold. She’d leave something behind every time—a flower, a message from a friend. Once, by accident, she left Ryan’s pacifier.  
  
The second week she came by herself, on her lunch hour. She’d sit on the edge of your tombstone with her gloved hands in her lap and stare at the sky. She was back at work; Ryan was back in day care.  
  
The third week she didn’t come at all until Friday, only that time she brought Duncan with her, one of your best friends from high school. He was holding her hand. They walked the stretch of grass in front of your grave a couple of times and before they got back into his car, he kissed her. The scene you’d been witnessing for three weeks no longer felt like a cold November day in Pittsburgh. Everything was warming up.  
  
That night, when he was fucking her in your bed—it wasn’t the first time. There was nothing new about it, not a hint of nervous energy, and then you realized that all of the bragging Duncan did about the women he was ‘dunkin,’ well, the pun was at your expense.  
  
And Ryan learned to walk and to talk and Duncan became ‘Daddy.’  
  
The last time you saw Meredith on television was the day she opened the results of Ryan’s paternity test. She and Duncan were married by then, and she was alone in the car.  
  
Ryan was your son.  
  
The disbelief flooding Meredith made you furious. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. You wondered if she’d ever tell Ryan about you, or just let him grow up thinking Duncan was his father.  
  
And thus ended your feature presentation.  
  
……  
  
When the douche bag you were standing over coughed and opened his eyes, his first words were, “Where the fuck am I?”  
  
And so you told him with the hospitality that you were so utterly famous for, “Well, I can tell you this: you’re sure as hell not in Kansas anymore.”  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_and she was_  
  
After exiting the tunnels, you traded your father’s gun for a hot shower and a tray of chicken parmesan which practically burned your legs through your jeans as you held it on your lap during your cab ride back to Dan’s place. Amelia flung the door open when your foot cleared the top step, announcing your arrival, “Z is here, Daddy!”  
  
She held the door open for you which really wasn’t necessary, but you thanked her anyway, jumping in your skin when she subsequently slammed the shit out of it once you were inside. “Amelia, take it easy,” her father told her. “You need to calm down.” Sam was on his hands and knees in front of Dan’s television, cords and equipment littering the space around him.  
  
“Need help?” you asked him after sitting the food in the kitchen.  
  
“I’m just hooking my PC up to his television so we can watch the footage when everyone gets here.”  
  
“Cool.”  
  
……  
  
“Where’s Doc?” you asked Sam.  
  
“Upstairs with Harper.”  
  
“Okay if I go up?” you asked.  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
……  
  
When you entered Harper’s studio, Amelia was on your heels. Harper was sitting, one knee up, one knee down in a chair while Daniel folded the futon back into a sofa. When she saw your face, she smiled and then braced herself for the bundle of energy running towards her. “Mommy!” You smiled back and then sat on the futon while Amelia used Harper as a jungle gym. “You were ‘sleep for a long time, Mommy.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I drewed pictures with Dr. Car-ride.”  
  
“I can’t wait to see them.”  
  
You told Daniel that there was an entire pan of chicken parmesan in his kitchen, and he shook his head, “Your parents do too much.”  
  
“They’re Italian. They can’t help it.”  
  
“Please thank them for me,” he told you.  
  
“Already been done.”  
  
Daniel walked over to Harper and spoke to Amelia, “Do you want to go to the bakery with me to get some garlic bread?” At the mere mention of an outing that involved food, he had Amelia’s full attention. “The one you like, where they have the pink people cookies?”  
  
Amelia jumped off her mother’s lap, “Gingerbed?”  
  
“Yeah. Your favorite.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Go find your shoes,” Harper told her, and Amelia quickly vanished, returning seconds later in her little black shoes placed squarely on the wrong feet. Dan fixed them for her, and her feet were all ready to go just in time for them to get cold.  
  
She’d changed her mind.  
  
“You don’t want to go?” Dan asked.  
  
“Is it time for Brime Kinney?” Amelia asked.  
  
“After we walk _all_ the way to the bakery, get the bread—" Daniel began.  
  
“And the pink people cookies.”  
  
“Right, and the cookies and walk _all_ the way back, then he’ll be here.”  
  
Amelia pondered that for a few moments, and then agreed, “Okay. You can have a gingerbed, too, Mommy.”  
  
“Oh, thank you. Make sure it’s a big one,” Harper told her.  
  
“Yeah,” Amelia said, “’Cause you took a good nap.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_you’re waiting for someone to push you away_  
  
And they were down the stairs, saying good-bye to Sam, the door closing behind him and you were alone with Harper for the first time in years. She came over and sat next to you on the futon, wearing worn out pajamas, her hair dull and straight, her face tired and sad. She looked nothing like the girl you used to know.  
  
Nothing at all.  
  
But when she leaned against you—hesitantly, as if unsure that it was okay—she felt like the same woman you’d known, so you relaxed a little, watching your arm move off the back of the futon and fit around her shoulders as if it wasn’t even connected to your own body.  
  
“I’m really glad you came,” she said. “I’ve missed you; you know, all the crazy stuff we used to do.”  
  
“I’ve missed you, too.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Doc taking good of you?” you asked.  
  
“He says I’m in shock,” she said, her voice calm as she wrapped a strand of her hair around her finger and then unraveled it to start all over again.  
  
“That what you think?”  
  
She looked up at you then and it made you remember the first time you met her, how her eyes were the color of caramel. But that day their color had started to fade, making you feel like you had to look at them even longer to really see it.  
  
When she answered you, the serenity in her voice lasted only until the last word, “I think I’m going to shatter into a million pieces.”  
  
And then she did.  
  
Her body shook in your arms as if it was trying to distract you from the fact that she was crying, her teeth chattering as if that could cover a sob. And the harder she cried, the tighter your held her, like maybe you were trying to push it all back inside her, but that wasn’t it—it was just that you didn’t know what to do. You no longer felt like the guy who could come to the rescue.  
  
This wasn’t a busted radiator or an insubordinate techno-fridge; this was a broken spirit.  
  
Your toolbox was empty and useless.  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_where did all the blue skies go?_  
  
Amelia hop scotched all the way back from the bakery, one hand holding yours and the other clasped around a white bag of gingerbread cookies. You’d only stopped her when it was time to cross a street, carrying her then because her impulse to walk when it said ‘WALK’ was a little too honed. But then you’d set her back down on the ground and she’d take your hand and begin hopping again. It made for a long trip but much needed exercise.  
  
“I’m a good hopper,” she told you.  
  
“Better than a bunny rabbit,” you told her.  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause the Easter Bunny, he can’t hop as good as me.”  
  
“He can’t?”  
  
“He’s fat and his feet are too big.”  
  
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Yeah, I knowed the Easter Bunny.”  
  
……  
  
When you and Amelia got back to your place and stepped inside the front door, you immediately felt like something wasn’t right. There wasn’t anyone downstairs, but you could hear voices upstairs and see the door to the studio cracked open a couple of inches, sunlight trying to squeeze through.  
  
“Wanna give a gingerbed to Mommy,” Amelia said, handing you the bag so she could navigate the stairs on her own. You followed her, the caution mandated by her pace seemed fitting for some reason. When you got to the top of the stairs, Amelia took the bag back and pushed the door open, and then both of you saw things that truly upset each of you: different things, different reasons.  
  
You saw Harper sitting cross-legged on the futon, sobbing uncontrollably, flanked on either side by Sam and Zeek, with Justin kneeling on the floor in front of her holding her as she’d fallen forward into his arms from the weight of her tears. Sam was crying, Zeek was almost catatonic, and Justin—well, you didn’t know; you couldn’t see his face. Brian was standing in the far corner of the studio, a vacant expression on his face, and he wasn’t looking at Harper; he was watching Justin. His eyes briefly moved from Justin to you when you walked in, but it was a reflex—the way you look in your rear view mirror when someone honks their horn. His expression didn’t change.  
  
And while you were processing all of that, Amelia had burst into the room with her own agenda and was halfway through her offer of, “Mommy, do you wanna a gingerbe--?” when she saw the six foot tall totem pole in the corner and froze like a tiny statue carelessly decorated with the indigenous icing of the pink people cookies.  
  
“You’re ‘upposed to ring the door bell,” she said to Brian.  
  
He smiled a little, sort of, but not really, and then somewhere in the universe a lid-less blender filled to the rim with the collective feelings of the last three days was plugged in, set on HIGH, turned on, and left to hurl emotional shrapnel in every direction...  
  
Because Brian didn’t notice the way she’d looked down at her shoes, or the way she’d pressed her lips together because they were quivering, and he didn’t know to factor the sugar and anti-nap quotients into the equation, not the mention the stress of the last few days, the change in her routine. The signs were all there in black, white and pink.  
  
And then they began to sparkle and flash and make themselves known by way of a high-pitched, category five meltdown...  
  
“YOU’RE….’UPPOSED….TO….TO….TO….RING…..RI

 

NG….THE…DOOR….DOORBELL.” Amelia could sob with the best of them. (Truth be told, she could put Harper to shame, but at the time, such a comparison was inappropriate.)

“She needs a nap,” Sam said.

“I do not,” Harper said.

“Honey, I’m not talking about you.”

Harper asked Amelia to bring her a cookie. No such luck. Amelia was no longer concerned with the welfare of the Pink People Cookies. Indeed, she had thrown the bag across the studio, and the odds that there were any survivors…probably not so good. She was more interested in lying on her back, smacking her feet on the floor and screaming.

You’re a trained professional, but, please, one a time. Group therapy has never been your preferred method of treatment.

……

Finally, Justin asked Brian to, “Come over here,” which meant that Brian had to step into the fray, but he did so anyway.

“What?”

“Go tell her that you’ll go outside the front door and knock, so she can answer it. She wants to be the one to let you in.”

“Okay,” Brian agreed, responding as if it was a covert military operation and Justin was his commanding officer.

He walked over to Amelia’s screaming presence and started to tell her, “Amelia—"

“Brian,” Justin said, “Bend down. You’re like a skyscraper to her.”

So Brian bent down, “Amelia.” She sucked in a sob and got quiet, staring back at him. “How about if I go downstairs, and go out the front door, and knock, and then you can open the door?”

She sat up, stood up, and watched Brian like a suspicious hawk as he walked out of the studio and started walking down the stairs, like maybe he was just going to walk out that front door and never come back. But when she was convinced that he was indeed going to fulfill his promise, she wiped her face with her hand and looked at you, “It’s time for Brime Kinney, Dr. Car-ride.”

“Okay.”

And then there was a nice, solid knock on the front door, her tear-soaked face sporting a Christmas morning smile.

“Amelia,” you asked, “I’m busy right now. Could you answer the door for me?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m ‘upposed to get the door.”

And then the five of you sat in the studio, smiling at one another, as you listened to her awkward footsteps down the stairs. Even Harper was smiling.

There was another knock, more solid and a little louder than the first, and Justin laughed, “He’s not very patient. They’re evenly matched in that department.”

And then you heard the door open.

“What took you so long?” Brian asked her.

“Brime Kinney is here!”

The occupants of the studio applauded.

“May I come in?” Brian asked.

She’d apparently denied his request, “No, do it again.”

*********************

  
_you better take a fool’s advice  
and take care of your own_

While Amelia had Brian trapped in her never-ending game of in-and-out, Justin had you trapped in the kitchen. Everyone was hungry; it was well past lunchtime, and while you were trying to toss salad, Justin was doling out plates, silverware, and advice,

“I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to watch that footage right now.”

“She says she wants to watch it, Justin.”

“Well, I may want to eat an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies, but that doesn’t mean I should.”

_Damnit, I should’ve gotten something for desert._

“What happened while I was gone?” you asked.

“All I know is that when we got here, everybody was upstairs, and Harper was completely hysterical. I’ve never seen her like that.”

“Well, what set her off?”

“I don’t know. She couldn’t even tell me. She couldn’t even talk.”

“Okay, look,” you told him, “Let’s just have lunch, let everybody relax, and play it by ear. Okay?”

You could tell it wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he agreed. You’d forgotten how insistent Justin could be.

“Time to eat,” he called, exiting the kitchen so he could set the dining room table.

……

Amelia sat next to Brian at lunch, but it was Justin sitting across from her who noticed when she was falling asleep into her plate, and it was Justin who got up and carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed, and it was Justin who helped you clear the table and clean up the dishes, and it was Justin who suggested that maybe everyone would like to play _Scrabble_ afterwards, and it was Justin whose idea was shot down immediately by Harper who told him to, “Stop buzzing around here like an insect and sit down. I want to watch the footage Sam took.”

And it was Justin who sighed when he sat down on the sofa next to Brian with his arms crossed over his chest. And although he was very, very quiet about it, you heard Brian, “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.” Which quite clearly meant _shut up._

But when Sam got everything working, got it bright enough to see what everyone wanted to see, it was Brian who got up about ten minutes in and asked if you had anything for a headache.

“Sure,” you said. “In my bathroom, medicine cabinet. Anything you want.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t feel good?” Justin asked.

“Headache.”

Whereas it takes Amelia at least three minutes to get up your staircase, it took Brian all of three seconds. He took the steps two at a time.

*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**

  
_shakedown dreams walking in broad daylight_

Daniel’s bedroom was like the rest of his home, nothing but white--off-white, cream, egg shell, ecru, ivory—you name it. If there was a hint of purity associated with it, it was in his house. His bathroom was white, the inside of the medicine cabinet was white, the ibuprofen you were swallowing—white, white, white. Justin’s painting hanging over his bed…

Not white at all.

In fact, the only color in the doctor’s entire place was in the artwork adorning the walls, and the majority of that was Justin’s. You didn’t notice that at first, you’d peeked when no one was looking. Yet all of Justin’s work hanging in Daniel’s home was abstract. There wasn’t one piece with a recognizable face or object in it. It was all chaotic. And for some reason, this made you feel better.

The wingback chair in the corner of Daniel’s bedroom overlooked the street. It, too, was white. You made yourself comfortable, kicking your shoes off and stretching your legs out over the matching ottoman.

Daniel reminded you of Debbie; he was a person with no boundaries. Anyone and everyone was welcome in his home and could stay for as long as he wanted. It didn’t surprise you that Justin landed here; it was what he was used to. Doors were always opened for Justin, and even when you were telling him no and refusing him time and again, you had this tendency to slam the front door in his face and leave the back one wide open. The only person you needed to fool was yourself, and, quite frankly, that’s never been that difficult.

Maybe that was why you didn’t feel uncomfortable being there either.

……

Although you’d never met Harper before and didn’t know much about her, it made you sick to see her being destroyed from the inside out. The incomprehensible despair in that room, you could feel yourself trying to push it away and felt equally horrified when Justin immediately walked right up to it and put his arms around it and tried to talk to it, to reason with it, to maybe give it something it wanted. And you just don’t do that; you don’t try to pacify something so horrible. You get rid of it—at all costs.

But Justin doesn’t run from things; he never has. And now that you were married to him that meant that you weren’t to run either.

It was something you’d never even considered when you thought about spending your life with him. You’re twelve years his senior and had spent so many years waiting for him to stand firmly with you on equal ground…or what you thought was equal ground.

You let your head rest against the back of the chair and made yourself stare out the window. And although you could feel yourself start to relax a little, your eyes refused to close.

*********************

  
_it’s only the frame that holds me together_

“Brian?” Your head turned toward the door at the sound of Justin’s voice. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He walked over and you moved your feet off the ottoman so he could sit down.

“You still have a headache?”

“Kind of.”

His hand was resting on your thigh as you’d propped one leg back up on the edge of the ottoman, the tip of his index finger tracing the seam of your jeans.

“Sarah just called,” he said.

“She did?”

“Your phone was downstairs.”

“Oh. What’d she want?”

“She and Nate are in town. She wants to come over and meet Harper, get to know her a little bit before she sings at Alan’s funeral.”

“Is that okay with Harper?” you asked.

“Yeah. I think it’ll help her process this actually. They’re on their way.”

And then he leaned forward and said, “C’mere,” in the way people do when you have a big piece of fuzz in your hair, only you didn’t have any fuzz in your hair, he just wanted to kiss you, and then he more or less ended up in the chair with you, halfway on your lap, half falling out of the chair, so you held onto him because it was a really, really nice kiss.

The kind that doesn’t so much scream _fuck me_ but just feels like _love you._

And it lasted for as long as it needed to and didn't need to go any further because it was what it was. And when it was over, when he was smiling down at you with his hand on your face, you made him a solemn promise,

"Keep this up, and I might just let you in my gingerbed tonight."

He busted out laughing.

*********************  
**SARAH ROCKFORD’S POV**

  
_and in my hour of darkness  
she is standing right it front of me_

The doctor’s home felt so sterile when you walked inside, but the doctor himself seemed affable and very kind. The place felt small, though. When you mentioned this to Nate, he pointed out that the two of you lived at a ski resort, so your perspectives were a little skewed. He was probably right. When you finally met Harper, you felt an immediate connection to the young woman. She was a melancholy beauty, her features valiantly battling a storm.

The two of you retired to her studio with a bottle of wine and talked for over an hour. You’d made the right decision to come to the city a few days prior to the funeral; this girl needed something more, something different than what she was getting. And when you put it all together, the entire picture of Harper’s life, you excused yourself for a minute, went downstairs and very politely asked Dr. Cartwright (who was preparing a cheese and cracker tray for you and Harper in the kitchen) to, “Get all of the testosterone out of the house. Think you guys could make yourselves scarce for a few hours?”

After insisting that you call him Daniel, the doctor smiled, laughed, and said, “Sure, no problem.”

You thanked him and took the tray back up the stairs, shutting the studio door behind you.

And once you knew they were gone, you knew you’d done the right thing.

This was clearly women’s work.

 

 

Lyrics taken from the Dave Matthew’s Band _Crash Into Me_ , Matchbox Twenty’s _Unwell_ , Paul Simon’s _I Am a Rock_ , Collective Soul’s _December_ , REM’s _It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)_ , the Dave Matthew’s Band _The Space Between_ , REM with Natalie Merchant _Photograph_ , Lifehouse’s _Hanging By a Moment_ , Nirvana’s _Come As You Are_ , Everlast’s _What It’s Like_ , Talking Head’s _And She Was_ , Vertical Horizon’s _Everything You Want_ , the Smashing Pumpkins’s _1979_ , Marvin Gaye’s _Mercy Mercy Me_ , Don Henley’s _New York Minute_ , the Talking Heads’s _Burning Down the House_ , Kenny Rogers’s _If I Were a Painting_ , and The Beatles’s _Let It Be_.

 

 

Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)


	37. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 34-Latitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 11/26/06] This chapter was in 2 posts on LJ. It's posted in full here.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 34-LATITUDE**  
  
**SARAH ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
  
_this is the story of a girl  
who cried a river and drowned the whole world_  
  
Harper’s daughter, Amelia, was less than receptive to the idea that Brian would be leaving the house and going somewhere without her. His impending departure threatened to unleash a tsunami that seemed to have everyone up in arms as they got ready to go out for the evening. At one point, you found yourself alone in the foyer with the little girl while she was in between breakdowns.  
  
“May I sit beside you?” you asked pointing to the stairs.  
  
“No.” She was guarding them; Brian would have to come down at one point or another.  
  
“I saw the tea party you were having upstairs. Who were you having a party for? It looked very fancy.”  
  
She looked up at you and sniffed, “Amnimals.”  
  
“Oh, you have a lot of animals; must be a lot of work to have such a big party.”  
  
“Yeah, ’cause sometimes they’re hungry.”  
  
“I’ll bet they are.”  
  
And then all of a sudden the studio door opened and everyone poured out of it. You called to Nate who was sitting in the living room talking to Daniel, “Nate, they’re leaving.”  
  
Amelia’s face started to crack again, but Harper came down the stairs, took her hand, moved her out of the way and then told her that it was her job to hold the door for everyone. Brian made sure he was at the back of the line. “Good night, Amelia,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Bye…Brime….Kin…ney,” she said, the last of her tears reluctant to leave, and then she clung to the doorknob as he walked down the front steps, watching as the cab he’d gotten into with Justin finally pulled away. Having successfully completed her mission, she spun around and slammed the door shut, and then followed you into the kitchen because Harper had promised her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  
  
“One of these days,” Harper told her, “You’re going to slam that door too hard, and it’s going to fall right off its hinges.”  
  
But Amelia didn’t care; she’d miraculously recovered from Brian’s betrayal and was now interested in you, patting your leg to get your attention and asking, “Do you know that I’m so beautiful?”  
  
“I did notice that,” you told her. “How’d you get so pretty?”  
  
Amelia scrunched up her forehead and looked at Harper as if her mother needed to whisper the answer to her, and when Harper didn’t she looked back at you and just guessed, shrugging her small shoulders, “I was just borned that way a long time ago.”  
  
“Oh, that’s very interesting. You’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”  
  
“Yeah,” Amelia said, “But you hafta brush your teeth a lot first.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_and I don't know if I've ever been really loved by a hand that's touched me_  
  
When you returned to the city after your mother’s funeral three years ago, Justin was painting like a man on a mission. You weren’t exactly sure why he’d left in such a hurry that November night, but you had problems of your own: playing catch up with your patients and processing your own grief over the unexpected loss of your mother. So, although you thought it a bit strange that he began painting with an intensity you hadn’t seen before and locking his studio when he was ready to take a break for a few hours, you didn’t allow yourself to over think it. You’d secretly feared that he wouldn’t come back, that you’d get a phone call one evening asking you to pack everything up. But he did and you didn’t, so why look a gift horse in the mouth?  
  
But then one day, you came home from work around four thirty, your usual time, and passed Justin as he was leaving your place. His mood had changed, the intensity seemed to have floated away, he was smiling as he walked down the street. You waved to him, he waved back, and when you entered your home, there was sunlight pouring down the stairs for the first time in months. The studio door was wide open.  
  
You ignored it at first, making yourself an early dinner, watching some television, trying to finish a book you needed to return to the library, but after you’d read the same page four times, you gave in and went upstairs, standing in the doorway of the studio. There were several uncovered canvases, all but one of them facing the doorway, so you walked around slowly, looking at all of those first, every one of them a variation on the same scene…  
  
A cemetery, a grave, a headstone, Justin, and the man who’d swept him away in a limousine that night…  
  
And all of them different…  
  
In some, the headstone was given top billing. In others Justin loomed large. And in the one facing away, the one he’d completely finished, the man who’d come to get him that night towered over everything…  
  
You wondered what this was about but never put the question to Justin—perhaps because you felt guilty for peering at his secrets, perhaps because it made him all the more attractive to you—the enigma content with his complexities; someone who had zero interest in the one thing you were good at. But when you put the question to Jonathon, he cut through your psycho-babble with a butter knife, “You don’t want to know, Dan, because if you figure him out, you’ll know why he doesn’t love you.”  
  
“Sometimes I think you’re unnecessarily cruel,” you told him.  
  
“Sometimes I think you like it,” he replied.  
  
……  
  
So when the six of you left your place that Wednesday evening at Sarah’s request, you ended up at a trendy New York restaurant, all of you underdressed and more than welcome. It was something that Brian was apparently accustomed to, and you couldn’t think of a time when you’d been more doted upon in your entire life. The meal was wonderful, the conversation delightful and oddly superficial, and as the plates were cleared away and bottles of wine were replaced with coffee and after dinner drinks, the six of you began to reorganize. Sam and Justin remained in an intense conversation at the far end of your table, the topic having shifted to Alan and his artwork and somehow morphed into a private discussion. The rest of you—Brian, Nate, Zeek, and yourself—wound up in the bar area at a table not quite wide enough for Brian’s leg room requirements. The only thing the four of you had in common, as far as you could tell, was that each of you left the house each day to earn a living. Sam and Justin were of a different sort.  
  
It was at that table that Zeek and Brian brought Nate up to speed on the events of the day—the excursion beneath the city, the stress of the entire week (and it was only Wednesday), etc. Eventually, the conversation wound around to the few hours before he and Sarah had arrived at your home, and then the explanation of what Brian and Zeek had seen in the tunnels was interspersed with what you’d seen in the footage Sam shot while they were down there. Nate listened with a look of disbelief on his face.  
  
“This is actually true?” he asked.  
  
“Believe it or not,” Brian said. “And I wouldn’t have had I not seen it with my own eyes.”  
  
“Aside from the fact that it’s unsettling to actually see people living like that, especially those children,” you said, “It’s really strange to be looking at reproductions of Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh, and then Justin’s work right alongside them. I thought that was kind of surreal.”  
  
“No shit,” Zeek said. “And they do that shit with spray paint.”  
  
“You’ll have to tell Sarah,” he said. “She’d be fascinated by something like that.”  
  
“And also by the fact that we were seven levels beneath the street, and we never saw a single gnome,” Brian added.  
  
Nate laughed, “You go right ahead and tell her that, too, Brian. Just remember that I’m not responsible for the ass kicking you’ll get.”  
  
“Duly noted.”  
  
……  
  
Brian was sitting directly across from you and his legs bumped into yours more than once, causing him to apologize every time he tried to shift in his seat. Eventually, he got frustrated, and he and Zeek went outside to smoke. You had no trouble making conversation with Nate; he was one of the most affable people you’d ever met.  
  
“Nate, you’re wife, she’s—" And then the word you were looking for eluded you. Nate didn’t try to fill in the blank for you; he just waited. “She has quite a presence. I guess that’s what I was trying to say.”  
  
He smiled, “And you’ve only known her for half a day.” You weren’t exactly sure what he meant by that, and the expression on your face must have communicated as much, so he re-calibrated his response, “Sarah’s one of those people that when you meet her, you feel as if she’s known you your entire life, and then the more time you spend with her, the more you’re convinced that you’re right.”  
  
You thought about what he said, “I think you’re right.”  
  
The front door opened and Brian and Zeek walked back inside and sat back down. You leaned back in your seat a little, trying to outrun the smell of cigarette smoke as it washed over you, having totally forgotten to ask about the gnomes.  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_because maybe  
you’re gonna be the one that saves me_  
  
Once Amelia had scarfed her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the three of you went back upstairs to your studio to talk so that Amelia could play without destroying Daniel’s home. Sarah asked about you, about your family, and then, because you offered, agreed to watch the footage Sam had taken in the tunnels that morning. You sat at your desk and watched it together on Sam’s laptop, and even just seeing it for the second time was making you feel better. Alan didn’t live a miserable life; he just lived a life you didn’t completely understand. As you got to the end of the footage, Sarah put her hand on yours, “Can you pause it or go back?”  
  
“Yeah.” So you went back a few frames.  
  
“Can you go forward like that? Frame by frame?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” So you did, and then Sarah stopped you and pointed at white eyes staring back at her, “Is that Justin?”  
  
“Yeah,” you smiled. “Alan and Stitch painted that. It’s a tribute to one of Justin’s paintings.” You zoomed out a little for her, “And it’s harder to see, but that’s Brian.”  
  
“Your brother’s really good. That’s kind of scary.”  
  
“Those other paintings we saw, he did those, too; either by himself or he and Stitch did them together.”  
  
“Those reproductions?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Harper, that unbelievable.”  
  
“I know. It kind of freaks me out; all this time he was a better artist than me.”  
  
“His art meant something different to him, didn’t it?” she asked.  
  
“Yeah,” you agreed. “I guess it did.”  
  
As the evening ended, Sarah thanked you for allowing her to view the footage because, “It gave me a real sense of who he was. Makes me feel much more grounded and honored, frankly, to sing for him.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“And I’d like to take you out tomorrow, you and Amelia. Maybe have lunch and get a dress to wear. Sound good?”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I know that, but I want to. It would mean a lot to me, Harper.”  
  
“Well, okay, I guess,” you told her, “I was sort of wondering where you got your shoes.”  
  
Sarah looked down at her feet, “Oh god, these? Milan, I think.” And then she looked embarrassed, “You have to understand; my husband…well, you know how most men can’t look a woman in the eye because they’re staring at her breasts?”  
  
“Uh, yeah.”  
  
“Well, Nate can’t because he’s staring at her shoes.”  
  
You looked down at the old pair of sneakers you had on, “He probably didn’t even see me then.”  
  
Sarah laughed and said, “Well, we’ll buy you some shoes tomorrow, and then you can put them on, and we’ll see if he acts like it’s the first time he’s ever met you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You walked Sarah down the stairs, exchanging phone numbers, thanking her for everything. She wouldn’t hear of it, “Don’t mention it again. I’ll call you in the morning. We’ll have a good time. You’ll see. It was wonderful to meet you,” and then she hugged you, “I mean, I never imagined that a friend of Justin’s could be so utterly charming.”  
  
And when you laughed in that way that means _that’s funny, but I really shouldn’t be laughing at that_ Sarah added, “Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely adore Justin. I just never tell him that I do.”  
  
“I think that’s what Brian did, too,” you said. “So he must like it…’cause he married him.”  
  
“Ooh, you’re witty and insightful. I like you.”  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sarah. It was great to meet you.”  
  
“The pleasure was all mine.”  
  
……  
  
Back in your studio, you looked around for Amelia. She was there, you knew, because you’d heard her making dinner for all of her dolls and stuffed animals...  
  
_”You hafta eat your macaronis!_ ”  
  
and putting them to bed…  
  
_”Just one more story…once upomatime…”_  
  
And then she’d gotten quiet. You’d assumed she’d fallen asleep as well. It was late, and it’d been a long day. But when you found her…  
  
“Amelia, what are you doing?”  
  
You bent down and helped her sit up, every pink, sticky inch of her.  
  
“The peoples,” she said, “They’re boken.”  
  
Her eyes were barely open and the bag was empty; she eaten every single casualty of the Pink People Cookie Massacre without making a sound.  
  
“Let’s go home, okay?” you said, picking her up. You carried her into the bathroom and let her tired body lean against you as you wiped the pink icing off of her face and hands and decided you’d deal with her hair in the morning. You walked through Daniel’s place turning off the lights, grabbed your purse, and stepped outside into the April night, locking the door behind you. Sam would’ve wanted you to take a cab, but you didn’t want to.  
  
……  
  
You carried Amelia down the street to the subway station. It was a short walk and the night was almost warm. Amelia buried her face in your shoulder at the bright lights when you stepped onto the train and sat down. Less than a minute after the train began to move, she closed her eyes again and fell asleep. The only other person in the car with you was an old woman, far away from you at the other end. You looked at her once, and she smiled and then went back to digging through the plastic grocery bag she had next to her. You held Amelia as tightly as you could without waking her up, closed your eyes, and thought about Alan…  
  
about who he was…  
  
about why you missed him…  
  
about how your life was going to start being about you.  
  
And you were probably crying when it was time to get off the train, but you didn’t really care. You carried Amelia up the steps and back up onto the dark street, down the block, into your building, and put her in her bed, her little shoes now on the floor. And then you went into your bedroom, took off your clothes, put on a nightgown, and got into bed. When you called Sam from the phone on your night table, the number popping up on his cell must’ve surprised him, “Harper?”  
  
“Just wanted you to know that we’re home.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_it was once upon a place_  
  
While you and your houseguests had been watching Sam’s footage earlier that afternoon, you saw a version of that mysterious painting yet again and thought that maybe since years had passed that you could get an answer to the question that had been waiting in your mind, patiently unanswered all that time. So, when the footage was about to end and the mural came into focus, you turned to ask Justin what this piece of work was about, but he was gone—his spot on the sofa abandoned. When you glanced around at everyone else, Zeek finally told you, “He went to check on Brian.”  
  
“Oh,” you said. “I was just going to ask—"  
  
“Yeah,” Zeek said. “Good luck with all that.”  
  
You looked at Sam and then at Harper, and they both shrugged. It was a mystery. Maybe Alan took the answer to his grave.  
  
……  
  
So, when Brian and Zeek had returned to the table, fragrant with second-hand smoke, you thought you’d try a different route, “Brian, may I ask you something?”  
  
“I promise I won’t kick you again.”  
  
You laughed, “That wasn’t it.”  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
You glanced at Zeek, and then back at Brian, “When I was watching the footage Sam took, at the very end, there was a mural or something on the wall that looked like Justin?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“The other figure in the mural, was that you? It was really dark.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What is the significance of that painting—"  
  
Brian got up and pulled another cigarette out of his pocket, “You should probably ask Justin.”  
  
“I tried.”  
  
By then, he’d put the cigarette between his lips, and he took it back out as if annoyed by the inconvenience, “What’d he say?”  
  
“He got up and went to check on you.”  
  
And then you saw something transpire that, for lack of a better term, seemed almost magnetic…  
  
Brian no longer made eye contact with you, glancing across the restaurant at Justin instead, and Justin, as if he knew something was amiss, got up within less than a minute and met Brian at the table. Brian completely disengaged as Justin orchestrated the cordial farewells, the ‘see you tomorrows,’ the ‘thank you for everythings,’ the hugs, all of it.  
  
Twins do this, you thought, have this sort of unspoken empathy for one another. The evening was clearly over.  
  
Nate got in a cab. Sam got in another. And you and Zeek stood quietly outside the restaurant as Brian and Justin walked away. There wasn’t an inch of space between them.  
  
“Did I say something wrong?” you asked Zeek.  
  
“Fuck if I know.” And then the two of you started to walk in the opposite direction of Brian and Justin. It would’ve made much more sense to take a cab, but somehow you both knew that you just needed to walk. “What time is it?” Zeek asked you after you’d walked a few blocks.  
  
“Almost ten.”  
  
“Okay if I crash at your place?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
……  
  
Your foot was on the first step leading to your front door when you thought of something else, “What about the name on the tombstone? Do we know who that it is?”  
  
Zeek laughed, “Fuck no, he won’t even tell me that.”  
  
*********************  
**CODY BELL’S POV**  
  
  
_I’m a loser, baby,  
so why don’t you kill me?_  
  
This was most certainly Hell.  
  
To wake up to some homophobic prick staring down at you. You closed your eyes again and waited for the rest of his friends to join him, for the gay-bashing of the afterlife to begin.  
  
But when it didn’t, you opened your eyes again, and he was still there.  
  
So you told him, “If you’re going to beat me to a pulp, stop being a pussy and just fucking do it.”  
  
“I’ve got nothing but time,” he told you. “There’s no rush.”  
  
So you were right; this was Hell.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_and I'd give up forever to touch you,  
‘cause I know that you feel me somehow_  
  
When you bury something alive, it will eventually claw its way back out, one way or the other. If you’re lucky, you’ll be standing in the exact spot where it plans on resurfacing so you can greet it with equal amounts of rage and gravity to force it back down, but luck is bullshit.  
  
As you and Justin walked back to the hotel, he held your hand for a while and then his hand moved up, rubbing the inside of your forearm, eventually curling around your arm.  
  
The first order of business when you and Justin entered the lobby of your hotel that night was to take back everything that you’d stored away. It was you who asked the young lady behind the desk for the contents of the safe, and Justin who quietly inventoried everything, who made sure that nothing was missing. When he looked up at you and smiled, you thanked the woman and the two of you crossed the spacious lobby and stepped into an open elevator. When the doors shut, Justin asked you to hold your briefcase up, and you did. He unzipped one of the pockets and took out your wedding rings, handing you yours. When the doors opened, all outward signs of matrimony had been restored.  
  
Once inside your suite, you sat your briefcase on the table while Justin closed the door. You heard the lock _thunk_ into place.  
  
Neither of you bothered to turn on a light.  
  
His movements were quick and smooth, and if you didn’t know from years of practice that he was seducing you, you might’ve thought that he was getting ready to rob the place. He was so quiet, as if he’d even learned to forgo breathing in moments like this for the sake of the heist. But few thieves take off their clothes before cleaning you out as Justin was doing…taking his off first so that when he pushed your knit shirt up over your head, you’d have immediate contact with his skin and when he slid his hand down your stomach and beneath the waistband of your jeans, you were eager to help him then, getting out of them like they were infected with a deadly disease. And all this happened while you were standing up and then he pulled you and your knees bent a little and so, as before in a New York hotel room, he was on his back and you were on top of him—only this time, you were the one being rescued.  
  
The denial wasn’t running so deep anymore.  
  
Hell, it was barely treading water.  
  
Maybe that was why Justin was trying so hard, why he was so impatient, why you couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and once you did, why he wanted you to go, go, go, and you just didn’t want to. You just really didn’t want to move. And because you have a rather distinct physical advantage over him, there was little he could do besides kiss you or moan in your ear or fidget underneath you…  
  
“Brian.”  
  
So you kissed the place behind his ear and on his neck that always makes him settle down, and his eyes closed, and you let your fingers move across his face and then your arms wrapped around him again, cradling his head as yours sunk into the sheets next to his…  
  
“Brian?”  
  
And when you didn’t answer him and probably because you didn’t answer him, he said, “I think you should go back to Pittsburgh tomorrow.” His voice was soft and sweet and his hands were all over you trying to cushion the blow.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“No.”  
  
……  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because I don’t want to.”  
  
……  
  
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine,” he said.  
  
And you pushed up on your elbows then and looked at him, amazed at how much you could see in the darkness, and told him, “And so will I.” He wouldn’t even look at you, preferring the ceiling instead. So you lay back down and told his shoulder, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
The moments that followed didn’t exactly feel awkward, just not very comfortable, your body responding to the apology in his touch, unable to deny him the pleasure he seemed to need. You gave it to him and looked the other way when he traded it for emotional solace.  
  
But it wasn’t a fuck; it wasn’t foreplay or after play. It was just was some sort of emotional static resonating through your physical connection. He sighed and just held you as you lay there for several minutes and then eventually rose up underneath you, making a request after a perfunctory kiss, “Can you let me up please?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
So you did, rolling onto your back, watching him get out of bed, walk to the bathroom, turn on the light and shut the door. Something about the matter of fact way he did it just made you feel even worse.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_personal jesus_  
  
You have options in these types of situations; things you can do to allay the unsettled feeling inside you, so you began to tick them off in your head, giving each one fair consideration…  
  
…raid the mini-bar, finish off the evening in fifteen minutes with Jim®, Johnny®, and Gin. After all, when life gives you lemons, spike the lemonade. But you’d have to get out of bed.  
  
…dial Kevin Le Concierge and offer him cold, hard cash to hand deliver your favorite letters of the alphabet, but he’d probably demand a little ‘face time’ and when you (aka: Justin) told him to ‘fuck off,’ he’d turn you in or some shit. And then Justin would freeze your bank accounts and make you stay in the slammer overnight just for calling Kevin Le Concierge in the first place.  
  
…go over to Michael’s house and demand that he go with you to Babylon right then and there--oh fuck--wait, your techno-car is the bomb, but it’s not some fucking time machine.  
  
…distract yourself by masturbating, but you were already doing that, and, well, you know, how Jell-O has that consistency…?  
  
And then it dawned on you, what you had to do. When these things happen, when all of life’s Novocain has worn off, there’s only one thing to do.  
  
Take all of that negativity simmering inside you and direct it at the one person who really deserves it.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_we’ll crucify the insincere tonight_  
  
“Asshat.”  
  
The world’s just one big, huge circle that leads right back to Anderson Cooper, that’s what all that ‘three sixty’ business is all about. Doesn’t think the world revolves _around_ him; oh, no. He thinks it revolves _because_ of him. And the way he smirks at you every night at eleven o’clock is completely unnecessary. It’s like he’s saying: _’Yeah, Kinney, I see you. You may make the commercials, but I’m the reason they turn on the set. It’s all about me. First, me; then, the commercials. I’m number one. You’re number two. Me, me, me. Ha, ha, ha--’_  
  
“Jesus, Brian. Not tonight, okay?”  
  
_When did he come out of the bathroom?_  
  
_Fuck, where’s the remote?_ It was right next to you.  
  
_Find it. Find it. Find it. Jesus Fucking Christ, how did it get all the way across the room?_  
  
“What’d you do? Turn it on and throw it, Brian?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I think you broke it.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Call the front desk and tell them to bring us another one.”  
  
“Bring it here. I can fix it,” you told him.  
  
“I know you can. I just want you to experience the humiliation of having to ask for a new one so you’ll quit throwing them.”  
  
“Okay, you win. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself. Now, just give me the fucking thing.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
And then Justin climbed over you (because walking around to the other side of the bed was apparently too much to ask) which meant that his ass was right in your face because you were sitting up and sometimes that’s the hottest thing ever and sometimes it’s just having an ass in your face. And then he got under the covers, turning his back to you, burying himself under the sheets with a warning, “Look, watch it if you want, but don’t just sit there and talk back to him. If that’s what you’re going to do, go in the other room. I’m not listening to that shit tonight.”  
  
You muted the television and then made a sound that can only be described as a cat experiencing excruciating menstrual cramps.  
  
He glanced back over his shoulder, glaring at you in such a way that left you quite certain he’d just put a hex on your penis:  
  
J-E-L-L-O.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial_  
  
So within a few minutes, Justin was asleep, and you felt fairly certain of this because of two reasons. One being that you’d been whispering back at Cooper for the last five minutes or so, and Justin hadn’t so much as huffed at you…  
  
“ _You’ve had so much Botox, you can suck cock without altering your facial expression.”_  
  
Two being that while you were doing this, you had one hand under the covers resting ever-so-lightly on his ass, and your other hand on your dick, and both hands were doing quite well. In fact, Justin had actually moved toward you since you touched him, so things were definitely looking…  
  
Well, better not to jinx it.  
  
But when Anderson came back from commercial, he should’ve been ready to end his show because it almost midnight, but he didn’t. His expression had changed. He wasn’t smirking or summing up the night’s stories; he was switching gears. You sat up a little straighter, abandoned your dick, and turned the volume up just a little bit.  
  
“ _CNN is getting breaking news right now from one of our affiliates, KWCH, in Wichita, Kansas. Todd, we’ll turn it over to you.”_ (Kansas Todd has it so bad for Cooper it’s pathetic.)  
  
_“Thanks, Anderson. We’re reporting tonight at the site of a deadly meth lab explosion here in Wichita. As you can see here behind me, the home housing the lab was completely obliterated, and KWCH is now reporting that five people injured in the explosion have died at the hospital.”  
  
“Todd, I understand that the Wichita sheriff’s department had this house under surveillance?”  
  
“That’s right, Anderson.”_  
  
And that was when the picture they kept flashing on the screen finally registered in your brain. It was Cody, and he looked like shit casserole, like a piece of crap living in Kansas without a brain or a heart. (Then again, it was a mug shot.) But this strange turn of events had suddenly given you courage,  
  
“Justin, wake up.”  
  
“Nuh.”  
  
“Seriously, wake up.”  
  
You paused Anderson’s face and squeezed his ass, “Justin, come on.”  
  
“What the fuck?” He’s always so pleasant when he’s half asleep.  
  
“Look,” you said, pointing to the television.  
  
He didn’t, “Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He didn’t care. “I don’t care if he’s wearing a Men’s Wearhouse tie with his Prada jacket over his Fruit of the Loom tighty whities. Okay?”  
  
You changed your tactic, adapted to the situation, “Well, fine then; suit yourself. I just thought you’d want to know that one of Sarah’s winter chalet paintings just went for twenty five thousand at auction.”  
  
He sat up then with a flourish, the sheets smacking you in the face, “The fuck it did.”  
  
“Just kidding. Watch.”  
  
And you pushed play.  
  
*********************  
**CODY BELL’S POV**  
  
  
_consider this the slip  
that brought me to my knees_  
  
You were a dead man long before you were a dead man, chased back home to Kansas by a string of warrants for violating restraining orders, assault, drugs, and ultimately bank robbery—the crime you’d resorted to when you needed cash to finance all the others. Had you not facilitated your own earthly exit when you did, you would’ve been in federal custody within a week. Someone within your group of righteous renegades had already sold you down the river for immunity. Your body will be buried in a public cemetery in Wichita next to the old county courthouse and it won’t be there for long. Developers are ripping it up in fifteen months to put in a strip mall. After that, you’ll probably end up in some landfill somewhere.  
  
It was your inability to grasp the concept of moderation that killed you. You couldn’t believe in something without becoming the leader of the resistance, couldn’t hate something without boycotting the product, picketing outside the company, and personally harassing it’s employees, couldn’t see an injustice without launching a crusade to avenge it.  
  
But none of these things were really you; they were the Venetian screens of your life, propped up to dazzle and shield everyone from the real you—the nothingness inside you, the person you forgot to become. So you’ll be remembered as the person you pretended to be on a headstone you’ll never have:  
  
_Cody Bell  
Rebel With a Lost Cause._  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_yeah, I got a first class ticket  
but I'm as blue as a boy can be _  
  
Back at Daniel’s, you couldn’t sleep. You tried, in the guest bedroom. First, in the dark, but your mind wouldn’t settle down. So you turned on the light and tried to read one of Daniel’s magazines…no dice. Finally, you called Gabe. He entertained you with stories of the past few days: Emmett (in a butch moment) determined to do your job, trying to stock the walk in freezer back to front and only getting about halfway through until his back was killing him and he had to quit, Rube calling Gabe (instead of Brian) that morning with his Wednesday numbers and Gabe realizing that Rube is truly an automaton when it comes to things like that, your little brother chairing the morning meeting in Kinney’s absence where they essentially had nothing to talk about because, “You know, how it is.”  
  
“Yeah,” you said, “We only have those meetings so Kinney can bitch at us in a professional atmosphere.”  
  
“Right,” Gabe laughed, “And so that Cynthia can write it all down.”  
  
“And archive it in our PERSONNEL FILES. LIKE STAT.”  
  
“So he can review it for posterity when—"  
  
“When Justin’s not around and he needs to jerk off.”  
  
“Stop it,” Gabe added, “You’re making me choke on my beer.” It felt good to laugh. You needed to laugh. “How’s mom?”  
  
“Same.”  
  
“Pop?”  
  
“Same.”  
  
“Are those cops that did this—"  
  
“The same ones that enjoy comped meals at our place? Of course,” you confirmed.  
  
“What did Pop say?”  
  
“He said he told one of their buddies that if he ever saw them even standing in front of his restaurant, the entire force would come down with a mysterious case of food poisoning.”  
  
“This is bad news,” Gabe said.  
  
“Oh, the shit’s going to hit the fan. I think everyone’s just laying low until the funeral’s over.”  
  
“When is it?”  
  
“Friday morning.”  
  
And then Gabe added, “Oh, and I meant to tell you, at the end of the meeting today, Cynthia asked when you’d be back.”  
  
You sat up, “She did?”  
  
“Yep. So, Rube decides that we should have an official vote for the record, so he says, ‘Raise your hand if you miss Zeek.’”  
  
“Boy, this was a stupid meeting.”  
  
“Right, so Rube raises his hand, and I do, and then Debbie does and then Cynthia does, so then Emmett goes, ‘Why not?’ and raises his.”  
  
“And that leaves Pointdexter.”  
  
“Right, so we’re all sitting there with our hands up like dorks staring at Ted, and he’s like, ‘Fine, whatever, I miss him,’ and he raises his, too.”  
  
“Get the fuck out? It was anonymous?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Gabe was laughing and coughing so hard you thought about hanging up and calling 911. His last words to you were, “Oh my god, I gotta go, I’m gonna puke. Seriously, just…come…home.”  
  
Afterwards, as you lay there in your underwear on Dan’s guest bed surrounded by Harper’s sweaters and hair things and winding Amelia’s Jack-in-the-Box over and over and thought about Alan, you began to feel the anger you’d been trying so hard to ignore. Because it wasn’t until that moment, until Gabe said that he missed you, that everybody missed you, that you thought about Alan’s death as if somebody had killed _your_ little brother.  
  
And it wasn’t until you heard a knock on the bedroom door, “Zeek?” that you looked down and realized that you’d popped your last weasel.  
  
“Shit. Yeah?”  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah. You can come in.”  
  
Dan opened the door and poked his head in, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and then I kept hearing that song—"  
  
“Think I’m gonna have to buy her a new one,” you said, turning the recent casualty of your rage in his direction so he could see the carnage. Jack was no longer in the box, but rather slumped over the front of it, the weight of his head doing him in.  
  
“She’s got a least five of those things. She won’t miss it.”  
  
“I’ll just put ten bucks in her college fund.”  
  
Dan laughed, “C’mere. I want to show you something.”  
  
*********************  
**SAM COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_my girl_  
  
You didn’t plan on sleeping at home that night, assuming that Harper would want to stay at Daniel’s. His place had always been your second home. When you unlocked the door to your apartment, it felt good to be home even if Harper had forgotten to leave the light on over the stove. You shed your jacket in the hallway, hanging it up, and then walked quietly down the hall toward your bedroom, when you walked past the bathroom and heard a tiny whisper, _”Daddy?”_ You doubled back and stood in the doorway. Amelia was sitting on the toilet in the dark, her hands clutching the sides, her feet swinging back and forth.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“I hafta poop.”  
  
“Okay.” You turned the light on, and she winced, so you turned it back off, turning the one on in the hallway instead. And in that flash, you could see the cause of Amelia’s distress as you sat in front of her on the little step stool she’d used to get herself on the toilet. You held onto her so she could relax and not have to sit there a second longer clutching the porcelain, fearing that she’d fall in. “Mommy forgot to get your practice potty ready for bed, huh?” It was lying in the bathtub, upside down like it always is after Harper cleans it.  
  
“Yeah. She’s a ‘fraid train.”  
  
You laughed, “You tried to wake her up?”  
  
Amelia nodded in the darkness and then pressed her face to yours to show you what she’d done to Harper, “I did like this: ‘you’re ‘upposed to help me poop, Mommy,’ but her ears were boken.”  
  
“I’ll bet she forgot she put them on before she fell asleep,” you told her in your ‘shame on Mommy’ voice.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So you got up here all by yourself? Such a big girl; I’m proud of you.”  
  
“It’s time for the poop right now, Daddy.”  
  
“Okay, sorry.”  
  
That was your cue to shut up.  
  
……  
  
Once you tucked Amelia back into bed, made sure her practice potty was ready, her night light was burning and told her you loved her, she wanted to know what you had for dinner, so you told her, “Steak, shrimp, vegetables, and a too many beers. What did you have?”  
  
“Gingerbed,” she said with a twinkling smile on her little face.  
  
“Is that what’s in your hair?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, “And I had so many beers, too.”  
  
“You did?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What color were yours?” you asked her.  
  
She looked at you like you were stupidest daddy in the world, “Chocolate.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I licked the silver spoon,  
drank from the golden cup_  
  
Your life in New York City, how it’s ended up, is not what your parents envisioned for you when they were raising you in Connecticut high society. Your father devoted his life to being a top executive at a pharmaceutical company that made a killing on one of the plethora of Erectile Dysfunction drugs of twenty-first century, only to retire with a lifetime supply of it and no interest in fucking your mother. You couldn’t exactly blame him mojo-wise because your mother had more or less retired to the basement of your family’s mansion almost twenty years prior so she could count, sort, and re-organize her impressive collection of Bakelite jewelry and antiques. It started out as a hobby, something she could do with the other high society mothers at the country club whose husbands were always ‘playing the back nine’ which was code for ‘fucking their secretaries.’ But those husbands retired, gave up their secretaries, and enjoyed their wives again, while your parents never quite reconnected. Your father spent his time upstairs reading the _Wall Street Journal_ and bitching about your mother, while your mother was downstairs moving everything red to the east corner of the room while cursing your father.  
  
And while all this was going on, you were supposed to be in med school, and you knew this from a very young age, probably about the time your mother started referring to the crusty piece of your umbilical cord that she’d saved in your baby book as ‘Dr. Umbilical Cord.’ You were much more interested in the drama going on in your house than in healing anyone and discovered your true calling when an uncle gave you a video camera for Christmas one year. Once the presents were opened, your mom and dad vanished to their separate corners again, so you whipped out your new toy, went downstairs and taped your mother while she talked all about her Bakelite collection and why she was moving all of the circular pieces to the left side of the room and, “Anything with an edge to the right side. You know, near your father.”  
  
And then you went upstairs and taped your father who was watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and delivering a litany of reasons why—thanks to your mother--it certainly wasn’t. And then you let each of them watch one another in the privacy of their own personal hell. You studied their faces as they watched, realizing that they learned more about each other from that half hour than they had in all the years they’d shared the same bed.  
  
So, when you came to the city destined to be a filmmaker, you had a bit of a cushion to fall back on. Your stunt had stunned your parents into thinking that you might actually have a future in this ‘line of work’ (because it certainly wasn’t a profession, or, god forbid, a career), but you knew it wouldn’t last for long. You milked it for all it was worth, fondly calling your parents by their favorite nickname-- _Western Union_ \--until, finally, their wallets could no longer stand the shame of a son who passed up a guaranteed early admission to Harvard medical school to walk around some filthy, loud city with a camera on his shoulder like Geraldo Rivera.  
  
Less than a month after they cut the cord, you met Harper.  
  
It was the summer of 2007.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_see a certain girl I’ve had in mind_  
  
The day you met Harper was a weird day. You were somewhere in between miserable and happy, having adopted the habit of cataloging your moods from your mother. In fact, you were your mother that day, trying to comfort and ground yourself in your new studio by rearranging the place. You’d purchased a book the day before, _Feng Shui for Dummies_ , in an effort to fool yourself into believing that you weren’t having a neurotic meltdown. But you hadn’t even cracked the spine.  
  
There was something so oddly transparent about Harper when she stood outside your studio--her former studio, Justin’s former studio, Alan’s former crash pad—the day you met her, and yet shrouded at the same time. The next time you saw her you were wandering around in that bookstore again about to buy some book, probably _Documentaries for Dummies_ , when you saw her sitting on a loveseat, drinking a cup of a coffee, flipping through a book from the bargain bin. It was a collection of black and white photographs of Marilyn Monroe and other Hollywood legends. You ditched the book you were carrying and walked over to her.  
  
“Harper, right?”  
  
She didn’t even look up, “Hi, Sam.” But somehow you knew you weren’t getting the brush off; it was like she already knew you were there. “Okay if I sit?”  
  
“Can you get us some coffee, first? Mine’s cold.” She handed you her mug with a smile.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Now, had some Connecticut social-lite done that to you, you would’ve done it, and then spent the rest of the evening ranting about how fucking entitled rich women think they are, but with Harper, you were more than happy to oblige her.  
  
“How are you?” she asked when you returned with coffee for two and sat down beside her.  
  
“I’m good. You?”  
  
“Can’t complain,” she said.  
  
_A woman who can’t complain. How delicious._  
  
The book she was flipping through ended up halfway on her lap and halfway on yours, and the two of you talked about pictures and camera and angles and lighting and everything under the sun to do with photography for over an hour until your stomach growled and brought you back to reality: man cannot live on coffee alone.  
  
“Harper, I’d like to take you out to dinner,” you said.  
  
“When?” she asked as if it was the last thing she was expecting you to say.  
  
“Right now.”  
  
You left the book on the loveseat.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_she acts like summer and walks like rain_  
  
Dinner was chatty, though you can’t really remember much of what she said. Mostly, you just remember looking at her face and thinking that she was beautiful in that 16 mm kind of way, that her face, the sparkle in her eyes, would destroy you if you filtered it through the lens of your camera and then watched it all grainy and true. She had some kind of freeze-dried nostalgia about her, and she was charming you by accident, leaning in with her elbows on the table, fiddling with her bracelets, her necklace, sliding her rings on and off her fingers as she talked, getting a little drunk. Once you had to catch her before her breast went in her salad.  
  
Your mother would’ve been dazzled by her accessories and mortified by her manners.  
  
She was absolutely perfect.  
  
At some point during dinner, you told her about your aborted med school ways, and she informed you, “Well, you go to med school to learn to be a doctor, and you piss off and disappoint your parents in order to become an artist. So, congratulations. You’ve graduated with honors.”  
  
“If it only came with a diploma,” you lamented.  
  
“You’re an artist,” she said, “Make it yourself.”  
  
“Will you frame it for me?” you asked.  
  
“Sure,” she replied, “If it’s any good.”  
  
……  
  
You were completely unaware that the next few hours of the evening would occur to teach you a lesson that you would’ve never learned had you stayed in your homogenous New England life: when you meet a woman that you’re interested in, always know more about her than she knows about you. Consider it a condom for the first few months of your courtship.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_we look at each other  
wonder what the other is thinking_  
  
You ended up walking back to your studio, and everything felt so easy and natural that when she began to tease you about your bins and labels and your _Brother P-Touch Industrial Handheld Labeling System_ , you fessed up and told her that it was your mother’s fault, that she was crazy, spent all of her time in the basement labeling Ziplocs of colored plastic. So, Harper told you that her mother really was crazy, and you thought she was kidding because she can be that way sometimes, but she said no, that she wasn’t kidding and smiled and just kept walking around your studio looking in all of your containers like she was browsing at a flea market.  
  
You began to feel anxious, like you were on display—only inside out—and you weren’t sure if you should apologize or shut up or end the date or excuse yourself and disappear through the bathroom window. The studio belonged to her first. Fuck, you thought, she can just have it back.  
  
“But my mother’s dead,” she added and then she looked at you.  
  
Thank god, you thought, not that her mother was dead because that’s a horrible thing to think, but because you knew what to say. There’s only one thing you can say in that situation, “I’m sorry.”  
  
The words brought you relief.  
  
Temporarily. Because you would soon learn that Harper decides what your words mean, not you.  
  
……  
  
“You think I’m mad at you.” Harper can ask questions that don’t sound like questions; it’s one of the many disarming skills in her arsenal.  
  
“I think I’ve upset you,” you told her. You were going with honesty at that point.  
  
“Why?”  
  
You couldn’t answer that, not when you’d just met her, not when the answer didn’t even matter anymore. It was time to cut your losses. You put your hands in your pockets, defeated, “Can I walk you home?”  
  
She stayed right where she was, “No.”  
  
……  
  
And then the moment just hung there in the air like really cheap air freshener.  
  
……  
  
You looked at her and tried not to look frustrated, but then she picked up your label maker and turned it on. You sort of threw your hands up in the air and sat on your sofa, your head resting on your hand. She smiled in a way that made you calm down, not a victory smile that you were expecting, and then began to punch keys on your label maker. You sat there and watched her, laughing when she made a mistake and had to figure out how to go back and fix it. You weren’t going to tell her; she was on her own. Finally, she was done, and her finger hovered over the machine, searching while she chanted, “Print, print, print. Oh there it is.” And then the label maker buzzed and spit out a long piece of tape. She picked up a pair of scissors, and you stopped her, “It has a blade.”  
  
“I know; I just wanted to see if you’d tell me.” She sliced the label free and placed the machine back in its case, and then walked over and sat beside you on the sofa. You sat there patiently while she peeled the back of the label off and then turned to face you, “Here,” she said, pressing the long, red label on your jeans.  
  
You looked down at it and laughed:

 

 

 

  
“You do?”  
  
She did.  
  
……  
  
You shared a bottle of wine and box of Oreos because that was all you had, and after a while, you knew the wine was talking, but you didn’t care because she was so pretty and quirky and alive next to you, her bare feet sticking out of her jeans, her knees spiking up between you, a perfect arm rest.  
  
“It’s really weird to be here on a date with someone,” she said.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’ve had more sex in this place than you can possibly imagine.” When you laughed, she said, “Oh, shit. That was worse than me telling you about my mother, wasn’t it?” covering her mouth as if that would keep the words from falling out.  
  
“It’s okay. I’ve had sex here, too,” you told her.  
  
“You have?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, by myself.”  
  
When Harper’s drunk, she can’t laugh without snorting. When she finally stopped, she said, “Me, too.” And then started up again. “But mostly, with two other guys.” And then you had to catch her before she hit the floor.  
  
“Whoa. Be careful.”  
  
“Ohmygod, that’s such bullshit. Justin’s gay. He just watches.” And then she cackled like Broom Hilda on Ecstasy. You ended up on the floor with her in hysterics. You weren’t even sure what you were laughing at.  
  
Legend has it that everyone who rents that studio ends up having sex with Harper in one way or another--no wait--just having a lot of sex with a lot of people or whatever, but either way you didn’t care. You just wanted her to stop laughing long enough for you to kiss her. And the first kiss was nice and sweet and it surprised her and when it was over, she looked at you very seriously and said, “I don’t think I should get involved with a guy who’s named after a cocktail.”  
  
You pulled back a little and stared at her for a second, your brain a little slow, and then said, “That’s a _Tom_ Collins.”  
  
“Oh…shit.”  
  
It was the second time you’d seen Harper blush; the first being when you’d met her outside your studio. “You blush at the funniest times,” you told her.  
  
And then her expression changed again; she was wearing something seductive, her hand was sliding around your waist as she was pulling you back down. “C’mere,” she whispered.  
  
“What?” you asked, leaning down.  
  
She whispered in your ear, “You don’t have an uncle named Harvey Wallbanger, do you?”  
  
And that was when you knew that Harper was the one because you both had crazy mothers, artistic proclivities, and unchecked sex drives, because she found your penchant for labeling things adorable at first and ‘symptomatic of a much larger issue’ later, because she loved motherhood as much as she feared it, because she could hate your parents just like you did and then pretend she didn’t long enough to deposit the five thousand they sent you for your birthday, but mostly because she laughed and then really kissed you when you answered her question…  
  
“Only by marriage, but we only have to see him every other Christmas.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_you won't give up the search  
for the ghosts in the halls _  
  
So when you walked into your bedroom that night and saw Harper curled up and asleep, you took off your clothes and got into bed next to her, really next to her since all of this shit had happened. And when you went to put your arms around her and realized that she was wearing Ruth’s night gown, you weren’t able to view this tragedy through the luxurious distance of a camera lens any longer because it was right beside you—living, breathing, and scaring the shit out of you.  
  
The trunk that has always been at the foot of your bed belonged to Harper but first to Ruth and it was filled with everything Harper had left from her mother. You never opened it yourself; she’d officially shown you the contents once. It was filled with souvenirs from her childhood visits to Ruth’s hospital room: bracelets, blankets, a few pictures, some of Ruth’s clothing, random medical supplies that Harper had stolen because they reminded her of her mother. To this day, Harper keeps her jewelry in her top dresser drawer in a small, sea green, kidney shaped pan that she took from her mother’s room. The trunk was too large for its contents, but Harper refused to put anything else in it. You wondered now if that would change because all Alan’s death had done was rip the band-aid off of Ruth’s. And you weren’t sure who you were lying next to anymore—your wife, the mother of your child, or a little girl broken into a million pieces like a gingerbread cookie.  
  
You knew all of this was coming the minute you saw Sarah, the minute you felt her in Daniel’s place. You felt comfortable leaving Harper and Amelia there, all alone with her, and Daniel must’ve picked up on your vibe because he said to as you rode together in the cab to the restaurant, “You know, sometimes I think I’d make a better shrink if I’d screw my dick off.”  
  
“Is that why you gay guys get so much more work done than I do?” you asked him.  
  
“All we needed was a matriarch. Why didn’t I know that?”  
  
“Well, it’s not like they’re in the yellow pages,” you told him. He didn’t answer you; he just stared out the window. “The only people we even know that have decent mothers are Zeek—“  
  
“And she made the food.”  
  
“Right. And Justin, I guess.”  
  
“Well, that’s true. We have a bit of a maternal vacuum.”  
  
“That sounds vaginal,” you told him.  
  
“Freud would agree.” And then as the cab stopped in front of the restaurant, “She’s going to be all right, Sam.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
……  
  
But you didn’t know.  
  
And the only thing either of you had to fall back on was each other and Daniel and your friends. You got out of bed to find something to help you sleep, and when you walked back in the room, Harper was awake. She’d rolled over and was facing your side of the bed.  
  
“You’re home,” she said.  
  
“Yeah, have been for awhile.”  
  
You got back into bed next to her, and she not been wearing her mother’s night gown, you would’ve urged her to take it off. But instead, the thin, white cotton kept you at bay. And then she sat up as if something frightened her, “Oh shit, ‘Melia’s thing. I forgot to set it up,” and she was tossing the covers back in a panic.  
  
You stopped her, “Harper, she’s fine. I did it.”  
  
She lay back down, “Oh, thank god. How was dinner?”  
  
“Good. Long. Free.”  
  
“Free?”  
  
“Apparently, Brian’s so rich that people see him and just want to give him more free stuff.”  
  
“The circle of wealth, huh?”  
  
“Yeah. He’s very smooth about it, though.”  
  
……  
  
See you’d told Harper during one of your first lovemaking extravaganzas at your studio that her talent was spotting people with a trap door to crazy and yours was spotting people with a drawbridge to money. She was already madly in lust with you then, so she didn’t slap you…  
  
“For instance,” you told her, “Your friend, Justin, or voyeur-in-residence, or whatever he is, he’s loaded.”  
  
“He is not,” she insisted.  
  
“Yes, he is.”  
  
“He is not; he could barely pay the rent on this place. That’s why we’re at Daniel’s; because it’s free.”  
  
“It’s a drawbridge, Harper. It’s there when he wants it. Trust me.”  
  
“You think he has a trust fund or something?”  
  
“I’m not sure. There’s definitely some trust and some funds involved, but the rest, I’m not so clear on yet.”  
  
“Ooh, it’s a mystery.”  
  
“Well, you could just ask him,” you pointed out.  
  
“That’s no fun.” (That was pretty much half of Harper’s nutshell.) “And, besides, everyone’s entitled to their secrets.” (And that was the other.)  
  
At that point, your relationship with Harper had hit the ground running, and you had no intention of looking back; she was a whirlwind in bed, in her studio, at dinner, even walking down the street. Every moment felt like exactly what you were meant to do until you got to your studio one morning to find Harper already there, sitting on your sofa.  
  
“Hey, what’s up?” you said. She never came by in the morning; Harper doesn't officially recognize mornings. She stood up and that’s when you realized that she was crying. “What’s wrong?” But she wouldn’t answer you. “What? Tell me.”  
  
But she couldn’t.  
  
She just uncrossed her arms so you could see the label on her shirt, entitling you to her secret:

 

 

 

 ********************  
  
  
_I sank into Eden with you_  
  
Trying to talk to Harper after that morning was nearly impossible. She wouldn’t stay on the phone with you; she wouldn’t have lunch with you; she wouldn’t stay in one place long enough for you to finish a sentence. You kept at her for four days and then finally decided that you were going about it the wrong way, so you called her, and when she answered and said, “Look, I can’t talk right now,” instead of, “Hello,” you said, “I know. Come over when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting,” and hung up.  
  
Since your first date with Harper, you’d felt nothing but alive, almost resurrected, but now you’d gone completely numb because you didn’t know what she was going to do, and you loved her although you’d never told her, and this was an accident, and now you’d fucked everything up. And she was carrying your child and you were trying to offer her a drawbridge but were terrified she was going to slip out a trap door like a lizard you try to catch right before he disappears down a storm drain and you were never going to see her again.  
  
She didn’t call.  
  
She didn’t email.  
  
She just showed up twenty four hours later. And in that twenty four hours you’d done a lot of panicking, a lot of thinking, and only left the studio once to run a very quick errand. You’d been eating, sleeping, showering there; you weren’t going to miss her. You were ready. You let her come in, let her pace, let her talk, pretended there was a camera on your shoulder forcing you to accept the distance,  
  
“I’m sorry about this, Sam.”  
  
“It’s not your fault. It was an accident.” She stayed on the perimeter of the room, just like you thought she would.  
  
“I’m not sure if I want to keep it.”  
  
“Whatever you want to do, it’s up to you,” you reassured her.  
  
“I don’t want you to think I planned this or something.”  
  
“Harper, I don’t think that.”  
  
She was almost where you needed her to be, her fingers skimming the shelves. You were glad you’d dusted for the occasion.  
  
“It’s just that I don’t think that—"  
  
And then she stopped because she was finally there.  
  
You watched, holding your breath, as she pulled the plastic bin off the shelf. She stared at what was inside: pictures you’d taken of her, coupons for Oreo cookies, the cork from your first bottle of wine, menus of places you’d eaten, brochures from galleries and museums you’d visited, and then she ran her finger over the brand new shiny label you’d put on there just for her:

 

  
……  
  
……  
  
  
“You bought new tape for me?” she asked.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
She put the basket on the table in front of her and walked over to you, “You’re lowering the bridge for me?”  
  
“For both of you.”  
  
“Because you love me.”  
  
“Insanely.”  
  
……  
  
“You don’t have to do this. This is isn’t a reason to get married.”  
  
“It is if I love you, Harper.”  
  
“You barely know me, Sam.”  
  
“True,” you conceded, “But I love what I know.”  
  
……  
  
“This is crazy,” she said.  
  
“Right, but, hey, stick with what you know.”  
  
And then she laughed and was finally only a few inches away.  
  
……  
  
“Okay,” she said, and then she kissed you and made it clear that she wasn’t just, “Going to take your last name and become ‘Mrs. Tom Collins.’”  
  
“No, you’re not,” you said, “Because you’re pregnant and you can’t drink, so I’ll change _my_ name and be Mr. Tom Collins and you can be—"  
  
“Miss Shirley Temple.”  
  
And when Amelia was born, that was more or less whom she embodied, and neither you nor Harper even believed that _that_ part of Amelia’s conception was an accident.  
  
********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_I can see my life before me_  
  
There was nothing normal about your life, so it stood to reason that there would be nothing normal about your time in the AfterDeath either.  
  
The televisions had yet to come on for Cody when one suddenly came on for you. You walked over, reluctantly at first because it wasn’t your turn, but then you couldn’t ignore the tug in your chest any longer, so you gave in. And when you got front and center, you immediately wanted Chris and Cody to get lost, but they seemed stuck—Cody still on the ground staring up at a very threatening Chris--like rivals in a wax museum. You wanted privacy; what you were watching, it was personal. It was Stitch.  
  
But it wasn’t going to happen because Emma, Daniel’s mother, the woman who’d tried to comfort you when you first arrived in the AfterDeath, was beside you again, whispering to you as the second television had started to glow, “What’s going on?”  
  
You shrugged, “I have no idea,” and then walked over to the statues and snatched the remote off of Cody’s chest.  
  
“You can’t do that,” Emma scolded you.  
  
“Why the fuck not? He’s not using it.”  
  
She looked over at Chris and Cody, and then began to scoot over so she was practically smashed against you, “I don’t know what’s going on over there, but that’s just inappropriate.”  
  
“Look,” you told her, pointing to the set that had come on for her.  
  
As that image came into focus, you could both tell that it was Daniel…in his office at home under the stairs…in his pajamas. He’d taken his contacts out and was wearing his glasses, sitting in front of his computer. But he wasn’t alone. Zeek was with him, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.  
  
“Oh my goodness,” Emma said into her folded hands, “Please don’t make me watch this, Jesus.”  
  
You laughed and reassured her, “I don’t think you need to worry about that. Zeek is not your son’s type.”  
  
Emma looked almost offended, “Well, maybe my son is that…that big man’s type.”  
  
“His name is ‘Zeek,’ and I seriously doubt that,” you told her.  
  
“Why? Are you saying my son’s unattractive?” (The things dead people worry about sometimes.)  
  
“No. I just mean that,” and then you had to think about how to phrase it, “He probably just talks too much.”  
  
“Well, of course he does,” she said. “He’s a psychiatrist. That’s his _profession_.”  
  
Now she was just annoying you, “I meant during _sex.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Alan, I think I’d prefer it if we just changed the subject,” she told you, smoothing her shirt and letting the last word of her sentence hit the high note the way she always does when she’s smoking her morally superior crack.  
  
“Fine with me. I’m trying to watch this.”  
  
“Well, good. I’m so glad we got that settled.”  
  
********************  
**JONATHAN MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_you never could get it  
unless you were fed it_  
  
When the phone rang at midnight that night, Father Dick told you to, “Inor ih, peas,” because he was sucking you off, but he knew you couldn’t do that.  
  
“Can’t. It might be Jesus.” But when you grabbed the phone expecting to see the phone number of your answering service and saw Daniel’s number instead, you flashed the phone at Father Dick, “Sorry, wrong martyr.”  
  
“I’m going downstairs to get something to drink then,” he told you, “Want anything?”  
  
“Holy water on the rocks.” He flipped you off on his way out of the room, and then you greeted Daniel, “To what do I owe this coitus interruptus?”  
  
_“I just sent you an email.”_  
  
“Well, thank you for the call, but normally my computer does this thing that notifies me of such events. It’s very reliable.”  
  
_“Stop being a smart ass, and look at it.”_  
  
“Okay, hang on.”  
  
Father Dick walked back into the room just in time to catch you as you were falling off the bed. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked you.  
  
_”Please take me off speakerphone. You know I hate that.”_  
  
“I’m trying to get my laptop.”  
  
_”I’m serious.”_  
  
“Daniel, can you wait a second?” Richard asked as he picked you up off the floor, “He almost broke his neck.” And then he told you, “You know, for someone who went to med school, you do some really stupid shit sometimes. Why can’t you get up and get things like normal people?”  
  
“I like it when you come to my rescue,” you told him after he righted you again, “You’re like my pope in shining armor.” Father Dick rolled his eyes at you, pointed to your cock, and mouthed, _hurry up._ “Okay, Daniel. I’m looking at my email.”  
  
_”Read it.”_  
  
“Is this a patient thing, or can I look?” Father Dick asked.  
  
_"You can look.”_  
  
So you and Father Dick followed the link Dan sent you and read the obituary. “Okay, we read it. Am I supposed to know who that guy is?”  
  
_"Okay, well, remember that this morning was when everyone went under the street with Stitch?”_  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
_"Well, Sam filmed it, and I got to see the footage when they got back.”_  
  
“Congratulations. We’re both so happy for you.”  
  
_"Shut up and listen. Alan and Stitch have been recreating all of this art in the tunnels—Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet—"_  
  
“So, they have good taste.”  
  
_"And Justin’s. The last thing Sam filmed was a mural Alan painted. It was a reproduction of one of Justin’s paintings.”_  
  
“Okay.” Father Dick lay back on your bed and started playing with himself. “Daniel, long story short, please.”  
  
_”Remember that painting Justin painted three years ago, right after he got back from that instant vacation he took? You know, he was working on it after my mother died?”_  
  
“Yeah, I remember.”  
  
_”The name on the tombstone in that painting corresponds to that obituary I sent you.”_  
  
Father Dick sat up, and you read the obituary again. “Okay, so—"  
  
_”Now read the second link I sent you.”_  
  
So, you clicked the next link which took you to a front page article in the _Pittsburgh Post_ from 2001. The headline read:  
  
_All-American Athlete Lets More Than His Team Down_  
  
You were halfway down the page when you realized what you were reading. “Oh my god.”  
  
_”Yeah.”_  
  
……  
  
And then you scrolled further down the page.  
  
“If that is Brian ten years ago, the man has hardly aged.”  
  
_”That is not the point.”_  
  
“I know; I’m just saying.”  
  
……  
  
“Whoa,” you said when you finished, and then you looked at Father Dick. He wasn’t playing with himself anymore; he was under the covers.  
  
“My mojo just flew out the window,” he told you.  
  
“No shit.”  
  
_”I forwarded you something else that Zeek showed me.”_  
  
“Okay.” You clicked on the next email and started to read an article from 2005 about the bombing of a gay club, “Babylon, a gay club owned by advertising executive Brian Kinney.”  
  
“I’ve heard of that place,” Father Dick said.  
  
“Not the one in the bible,” you told him. He smacked you. “Dan, you just found out about all of this tonight?”  
  
“ _Yeah, long story. I started with the name on the tombstone and the obituary and started working backwards.”_  
  
“He never told you, did he?”  
  
_”Justin? No.”_ And then he paused, _”Well, unless-"_  
  
“You were trying to listen when you should’ve been looking.”  
  
_”Yeah…  
  
He sold that painting within weeks of finishing it. I can’t remember who bought it. Do you?”_  
  
You did remember because it sold the night before one of Justin and Harper’s shows at a dinner you and Daniel had for the two of them at your place, a dinner attended by a gaggle of elite, snobby New York physicians—all of them social has-beens with way too much money and a deficit of self-esteem. You remembered because the doctor who bought it had spent that evening and many prior hitting on Harper until she’d finally gotten so irritated with his roaming advances that she told him to fuck off.  
  
He’d gotten his revenge by snubbing her work and buying one of Justin’s paintings instead.  
  
“Yeah, I remember,” you told Dan. “It was Stan Abernathy. Don’t you remember that party? That quiche we got was horrible.”  
  
And then he did, _”Yes, yes, now I remember. Hang on a second,”_ and then you could hear him opening a door, talking to Zeek, _”It was that plastic surgeon, that creepy guy who used to hit on Harper at all her shows. You remember him, don’t you?”_  
  
Zeek remembered, _”Christ, Franken-stan bought that painting? Harper got so pissed at that guy one time she told me to go kick him in the nuts.”  
  
“Did you do it?”_ you heard Daniel ask.  
  
_”Hell, no, but I told her I did.”_  
  
“All right, Nancy Drew, mystery solved. We have to go back to The Case of the Interrupted Blow Job,” you told Daniel.  
  
_”This is the thing I couldn’t figure out,”_ Daniel told you, ignoring your plea to be released from the conversation.  
  
“What? That their love is laced with PTSD?”  
  
_”Yes, Jonathon, but every time you oversimplify you come off as dismissive and like you’re trying to minimize my feelings.”_  
  
“My apologies. I’ll adjust my medication. Do you feel better now that you know?”  
  
……  
  
He sighed, _”No, not better, really. Just sad…and worried.”_  
  
“Daniel, sad and worried _is_ better for you.”  
  
_”Shut up.”_ And then he told your fallen angel, _”You know you can do better than him, right?”_  
  
Richard laughed, “Probably, but right now I’m just trying to _do_ him, period.”  
  
_”Fine. Good-bye. Enjoy your blasphemous orgasms.”_  
  
You hung up the phone, shut your laptop and smiled at Father Dick. “What?” he said.  
  
“It’s just…I feel like I just watched my little amputee take his first steps.”  
  
“Oh, you’re definitely going to Hell for that.”  
  
********************  
**STITCH’S POV**  
  
  
_but god forbid you ever had to walk a mile in his shoes_  
  
When Lewis returned from his first trial run of many, something was wrong. First of all, you’d sent him by himself because it was a only a trial run, and yet he’d come back with more shit than he could carry, and second of all, he was a fucking basket case. This was exactly what concerned you about with Lewis. He’d be clean for over a year, but that hardly mattered because he was always a nervous wreck.  
  
You had to leave the children in the kitchen where they were all coloring a giant mural for Alan, something that you could take to his funeral on their behalf because there was no way they could go. The minute those kids hit the street and the cops saw them, every single one of them would be taken away. “Lewis is back,” you told them. “Keep working. It looks great. I’ll be back in a while.” And then you walked out and turned around and walked right back in, “And don’t fight over those paints. Got it?”  
  
“We got it,” one of the older boys, Derek, said.  
  
You walked through the tunnel and back to your room and found Lewis sitting on your bed, trying to empty all of his pockets and sort through everything he had. “What the fuck happened?”  
  
“I did what you said, Stitch."  
  
“Then why do you have all this shit? And why are you freaking out?”  
  
His instructions had been simple: learn Alan’s route, go to all the pick up points, meet people, get familiar with who you can trust and what you pick up on which days. Anything that businesses were going to throw away, Alan would offer to pick up if it could benefit anyone in your community. His contacts were strong; he’d been doing it for years.  
  
Lewis took his coat off, threw it on the bed, and started emptying the pockets of his jeans. You watched as he tossed roll after roll of cash on the bed.  
  
“Where’d you get that, Lewis? What’d you do?”  
  
“Stop yelling at me,” Lewis told you. He was shaking when he’d finally finished and sat down on the bed.  
  
“Okay, so talk.”  
  
“I did what you said. I went to every place on the list, looked for Alan’s tag—"  
  
“And did you find it?”  
  
“Yes, I found it, but—"  
  
“But, what?”  
  
“They’d all been changed.”  
  
“Changed?”  
  
And then he picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and showed you. “Like this, Stitch. Every single one of them looked like this:”

 

 

  
  
And then you could barely understand him as he tried to tell you the rest, “And there was so much stuff, Stitch. I couldn’t even get it all: food and clothes and medicine and cards and flowers and all this money. So, I got the food and the money and most of the medicine. But I have to go back. There’s so much. I’m sorry; I tried.”  
  
“It’s okay, Lewis,” you said as you sat down beside him. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have sent you by yourself.”  
  
“You didn’t know.”  
  
"You did the best you could; let's put this stuff away."  
  
And as you and Lewis went through everything, sorting it, counting the money, storing the food that had a shelf-life, the reality of not having Alan beside you became acute when you were staring at a can of yams and trying to decide whether to put it alphabetically with ‘potatoes’ or at the end by ‘yellow squash.’ You stacked all of the cards and letters on your dresser and then told Lewis, "You and me, we'll let everybody read these at dinner and then we'll give them to his sister with his other stuff. That's what we should do."  
  
"Okay."  
  
And then there was a knock at your door. “What?” you said, though it sounded more like a bark.  
  
“It’s Marie,” a little voice said; she was one of the younger children working on the mural.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
She pushed the door open slowly and then walked into the room, “We were just wondering if you had any more yellow. We’re not fighting or anything; we're just trying to make some sunshine.”  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Nine Days’s _Absolutely (Story of a Girl)_ , Matchbox Twenty’s _Real World_ , _Wonderwall_ by Oasis, the Talking Heads’s _Burning Down the House_ , Beck’s _Loser_ , the Goo Goo Doll’s _Iris_ , Depeche Mode’s _Personal Jesus_ , the Smashing Pumpkin’s _Tonight Tonight_ , Green Day’s _Good Riddance (Time of Your Life_ , REM’s _Losing My Religion_ , Marc Cohn’s _Walking in Memphis_ , The Temptation’s _My Girl_ , Everlast’s _What It’s Like_ , George and Ira Gershwin’s _Someone to Watch Over Me_ , Train’s _Drops of Jupiter_ , the Dave Matthew’s Band _Ants Marching_ , Sarah McLachlan’s _Building A Mystery_ , Live’s _I Alone_ , Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s _Wasted on the Way_ , Everlast’s _What It’s Like_ again, and Vertical Horizon’s _Everything You Want_.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)


	38. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 35-Fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 12/17/06]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 35-FUSION**  
  
**NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
  
_when my love for life is running dry,  
you come and pour yourself on me_  
  
Just being back in the city was re-energizing you that night. It’d been years since you and Sarah had spent a night in this sort of town, but she was exactly right when she said that it was what you needed. You always felt invigorated after hanging out with Brian; he made you laugh, and he was so fearless, so energetic about ideas and making money, he made you feel young again. Sometimes you felt guilty afterward, like you were a parasite living quietly of his enthusiastic, unstoppable fountain of youth.  
  
You’d come to the city to sing at funeral for a young man you never knew who didn’t live to see thirty, and, suddenly, there was a spring in your step. You didn’t know it, but there was something strange brewing in the cosmos that night. Initially, it would affect others more than you, but in the end—like they always say—for better or worse—what goes around comes around.  
  
You called Sarah from the cab, and she answered immediately, telling you that she was back at the hotel, and asking you, “ _How much have you had to drink?_ ”  
  
“Two glasses of wine. That’s it.”  
  
You could hear the pleasure in her voice, “ _So, you’re up for this tonight?”_  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“ _Yes?”_  
  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
  
“ _There’s a package for you at the front desk. Pick it up. I’ll see you in a little while.”_  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“ _You’re more than welcome.”_  
  
You hung up and leaned back in the cab, smiling as you could feel yourself getting hard, and because you were in a cab and because you’d never break a rule before Sarah was going to allow you a little wish fulfillment, you just took the edge of your phone and ran it up and down the clothed outline of your cock as you fantasized about the rest of the evening.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_you ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl_  
  
When you stepped inside the lobby of the hotel, it seemed oddly quiet, and the smiling gentleman behind the front desk greeted you by name when you were still several feet away, “Good evening, Mr. Rockford.”  
  
“Good evening.”  
  
“What can I do for you sir?”  
  
“I believe there’s a package for me?”  
  
“Just a moment.”  
  
You took the package into the men’s room and opened it. There was a note inside, folded in half, that read: _before you come upstairs._ You stuck it your pocket and pulled out the contents of the envelope: a black leather collar and a matching cock ring.  
  
When you exited the rest room a few minutes later, you were wearing both; the envelope was in the trash.  
  
You rode the elevator with a much younger couple who were drunk and alternating between arguing and molesting each other, and when the elevator opened at your floor, you gladly stepped out and walked to your room. In front of your door, you unbuttoned the top two buttons of your dress shirt, cleared your mind, and knocked.  
  
……  
  
When the door opened, Sarah smiled at you as she attached the hook on the end your leash through the collar you were wearing, and then allowed you to come inside. You were still standing while she shut and locked the door, standing and smiling because everything was perfect—the tiny red candles burning everywhere, the music, the restraints affixed to the four corners of the bed, a bottle of something chilling in a bucket of ice, her hair was down, and she was wearing the slinky black nightgown that you like. When she kissed you, there was licorice in her mouth.  
  
And then you were on your knees, and, oh god, her shoes…  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_echoes of angels that won’t return_  
  
“There are some things about a man you just don’t need to know,” Leo was telling you as he watched Nate in the men’s room. “I mean, I’m glad he’s feeling better, but enough already.”  
  
And you were pretending to agree with him and nodding your head all the while plotting which part of Chris’s body you should punch first because after seeing what Daniel and Zeek had uncovered, you were extremely fucking pissed. But Vic was standing on the opposite side of you telling you that it was pointless, that he was dead, and that you needed to trust him, “There’s no gratification in pummeling a dead guy, trust me.”  
  
“You beat the fuck out of Jack all the time,” you retorted.  
  
“Yeah, but that’s different,” Vic said.  
  
“How?”  
  
“I don’t know; we’re sort of family.”  
  
“That’s idiotic,” you told him.  
  
“I know, but go figure.”  
  
You looked over at Chris again, and he was still there, frozen over Cody, plastered in anger. “Whatever.”  
  
……  
  
According to Vic, what happened next was another AfterDeath anomaly, and it began by pulling your mother and Jack to the televisions, and the five of you stood there confused as a reel began to run backwards, very, very fast, starting with Chris’s broken body on the ground. It rose back up into the air, back into the lift, and then rewound for years—a baby born, a marriage, a job offer, a college degree, crying on his bathroom floor, shitting in his pants because Justin stuck a pistol in his mouth.  
  
“Fuck,” you said.  
  
“Shh,” Vic said. “I’ve only heard about this.”  
  
And then Justin running home to Brian with his tail between his legs after he’d just come from a night with Cody, threatening and harassing people in the streets.  
  
“This makes no sense,” you said to no one in particular.  
  
And then faster still, a street party, something about no car, a victory, lost jobs, a villain, deceit, reunions, separations, a comic book, coming clean, lying, cheating, symphonies, a week alone in the snow.  
  
“Is that The Rockford?” Leo asked.  
  
“Vermont,” Vic said.  
  
Brian having lunch with Leo, and then on a plane reading something—according to Leo, “That’s our annual report,”-- taking notes, fucking a flight attendant the minute the seat belt light had gone off. A decision made after an argument.  
  
Justin in art class struggling and failing; Brian in bed with Justin struggling and failing. Justin nothing like the boy he used to be. A trial by farce.  
  
Ambulances, paramedics, pushing everybody out of the way as you moved closer to the screen. Brian not making it to Justin in time; Chris falling to the ground, the blow that wiped the smile off Justin’s face.  
  
A young man in a tuxedo, whose mother was proud of him, who was about to go to his senior prom and then graduate from high school a week later.  
  
A much older man who was alone in his apartment with only two things on his bathroom counter--a glass of whiskey and a lit cigarette balanced in an ashtray he’d swiped from his father when he was just a kid--as he shaved. His black tuxedo hanging behind him, its reflection in the mirror—still in the plastic bag from the dry cleaners.  
  
“God, he’s exactly like me sometimes,” Jack said.  
  
“He knows,” Vic told him. “Believe me, he knows.”  
  
And then it wasn’t about Pittsburgh anymore; it was about a subway ride back in the city, and you turned to Vic, “Why did it change?”  
  
“Don’t ask me,” he said.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_just a stranger on the bus  
trying to make his way home_  
  
The strangest thing about the AfterDeath had been your ability to feel other people’s emotions; not everyone’s, but definitely the people you cared about. And for the most part that had been a painful, exhausting experience, wearing the grief of so many like a lead apron. But what happened next was a treat, a relief; the lead apron was gone. You could feel yourself riding the subway, but it wasn’t the you you were when you died, it was you at sixteen, a high-school dropout on an early spring day, wearing a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been shot with a BB gun. You could feel excitement, the naïve freedom of youth, and the power of a talent you didn’t know you had because while it was you on that subway, it was you inside someone else. You could feel the hand that wasn’t yours as it sketched the subway car you were riding in in minute detail, watch the page as every inch of it was covered in a snapshot of your surroundings. You didn’t want it to end; it was such a rush, made you feel like you were sitting inside yourself finally in control.  
  
But it wasn’t you.  
  
It was Justin.  
  
And when the screen went blank, you turned to Vic, shaking your hand like it had fallen asleep, “Could you feel that?”  
  
He shook his head and smiled, “No.”  
  
“I could feel that. It’s like I was doing it.”  
  
“Maybe you were a puppeteer,” Vic said.  
  
“No, I was literally inside him. It’s like we were doing it together.”  
  
“You’d have to be,” Vic said, “Because he can’t do that anymore.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_and so our sun is sinking low  
and your spirit's close behind_  
  
“You’re probably getting close to the end,” Vic told you after the televisions went off again and after you’d put the remote back on Cody’s chest.  
  
“The end of what?”  
  
“Your movie.”  
  
“How do you know?” you asked as the two of you sat down at the picnic table and started shuffling a deck of cards. “You cut; I’ll deal.”  
  
“That feeling you had, that incredible feeling, that usually comes toward the end,” Vic explained.  
  
You didn’t want to believe what he was telling you, so you pushed it out of your head, started talking about something else, “Aces are wild. Why was Justin in the city that day?”  
  
“He was running away.”  
  
“From who?” you asked.  
  
“Brian.”  
  
“I thought he loved Brian.”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“Then that makes no sense.”  
  
Vic laughed and then showed you his winning hand, “I know. Go figure.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_you’ve got your ball,  
you’ve got your chain_  
  
You are no more and no less than the sum of everything you’ve ever done, an endless paper chain of choice and circumstance, each link bound by obligation to deliver you to the next, each assigned equal weight and measure until it’s behind you. And this mantra that you so proudly espoused at every opportunity-- _no apologies, no regrets_ \--it was ultimately no different than a shot of whiskey or denial stuck up your nose or someone’s ass. It was a trick, a clever slogan designed to distract the buyer from the truth—that the moments that brought you to that hotel room that night were not paper chains or feathers, they were rocks. And they didn’t float, they sank. And though their weight made every step of the journey forward increasingly harder, they were also, paradoxically, a foundation.  
  
Like it or not.  
  
……  
  
“Turn it off,” Justin told you when Cooper started to repeat himself, so you did, and the room seemed suddenly darker than before, darker than it ever had. You lay down on your back, finally tired, and were surprised when Justin put neither space nor sheets between you. You were going to say something, and then decided against it, letting your fingers converse with him instead as they stroked his hair. His body felt twice as heavy as usual, his head weighing on your chest.  
  
Sometimes when you’re in bed with Justin and it’s quiet, you lay there and let yourself revisit the man you used to be—the one who brought you to where you were--the man that truly believed that love was like jury duty—you know it’s going to happen sooner or later; you’ll do anything to get out of it, and when you all else fails, you just go and do it.  
  
And that was part of your problem.  
  
Because you didn’t know much about jury duty when it was your turn to show up, and being Brian Kinney, you wouldn’t take a seat in the jury box with twelve of your peers. No, you sat squarely on the lone witness stand thinking it a throne, proudly suffered the prosecution, and then retired to the defendant’s chair where you’ve been waiting for the verdict ever since.  
  
The judge tried to tell you several times, “Mr. Kinney, you’re not the one on trial here.”  
  
But you ignored him, secretly believing that sooner or later you would be, so why not just get it over with?  
  
Justin was so quiet during all of this ruminating, you could feel yourself slipping away…  
  
*********************  
  
  
_practice makes perfect,  
perfect is a fault,  
and fault lines change_  
  
At some point when you were in that slippery state between wakefulness and sleep, you realized that Sarah had been the woman in your dream. It was her shoes, her four hundred dollar shoes, and her perfume. When she walked into Daniel’s house that night, you could smell your dream, and when Daniel told you that everyone needed to leave, you thought it prophetic because you wanted to get the hell out of there. Some irrational part of you felt like she wasn’t there for Harper at all; she was coming to get you.  
  
Eventually you were ready to sleep and needed to roll on your side which meant that you were facing Justin, and normally, he would’ve rolled, too, but he didn’t; he just lay there, awake and breathing in the dark. When your hand crossed the space between you, he took it and pressed it to his face; you could feel him smiling. And then you watched as the shadowed outline of his hand slid over yours, moved up your forearm and then curved around your bicep, pulling you toward him, an invitation.  
  
The kiss was soft and quiet, the elixir he ordered to relax the rest of his body. Whereas when you’d entered your room two hours ago he felt it his obligation to replace your anxiety with affection, he was intent on doing the same for himself at that moment, so focused as if he were unable to complete the transfusion his life would be over.  
  
And perhaps because you were physically connected at that moment, because he was reaching for you, because he needed you, you could finally see it so clearly, the quagmire you were in. It was so simple that you’d purposely complicated it just to survive, turned a blind eye as it bled into your career, your vices, your relationships, your dreams. But come that night, it had somehow managed to slink outside of you, escaped through your skin with the ease of a spirit walking through a wall—entitled, as if it had the right to evict itself from your subconscious--and then you felt like it was trying to smother you, felt it stuck to your body like a web of cheap cotton candy…  
  
“Brian, are you okay?”  
  
And that was the tricky part.  
  
Because in a way, you were more okay than you’d ever been and would’ve been for the rest of your life had time stopped at that moment, had the goal of your life been to get to that point and die. But the equilibrium was short-lived; in the blink of an eye, it was beginning to slide in the other direction. And you’d lost that confidence that you always kept in your back pocket; you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t tell him…  
  
You couldn’t tell him because you didn’t know what to say…or how to tell him that this man you loved…that the boy he was deserved better.  
  
……  
  
That to see him pen you as a superhero when the task itself was almost impossible because of you made you so angry—and so he named you—so angry that he couldn’t see that, that he wouldn’t just get the fuck out, get the fuck away from the circumstances you’d imposed on him, stop succumbing to some Stockholm syndrome need to be with you because it was killing you, this thought that you might hurt him again.  
  
Get out because it was killing _you._  
  
_You._  
  
You took a deep breath.  
  
“I’m fine,” you told him, and he believed you, running his hand over your chest until you stopped it with yours. He thought that meant that you wanted something else so he kissed you, and it didn’t feel right to you, and you thought he’d think that too, but he didn’t; he just pressed himself against you a little more, his body warm and dry. A dead giveaway, you thought. Neither of you were even perspiring.  
  
……  
  
“Did you have a good time at dinner?” he asked.  
  
“Steak was excellent, wine was perfect,” you reported.  
  
……  
  
“Well, something wasn’t good.”  
  
……  
  
You sighed and moved a little so that his head was lower than yours, so he couldn’t stare at you.  
  
……  
  
“Brian,” he started again, “This is why I said that—"  
  
“You know that painting in the tunnels?” you asked.  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“The one you’re in.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What’s it supposed to mean?”  
  
……  
  
He moved back a little, resting his head on his hand, staring at you anyway, “I don’t know.”  
  
……  
  
“It’s your painting.”  
  
“No, it’s not. It’s Alan’s painting,” he corrected you.  
  
“Of your painting.”  
  
“Right, but it’s his interpretation of my work. You’d have to ask him what it means.”  
  
……  
  
“Well, I can’t,” you told him. “So can you—"  
  
“No.”  
  
……  
  
*********************  
  
  
_these crimes between us grow deeper_  
  
……  
  
And then the silence that filled the space between you felt like a force field, and you’d felt that feeling before, just usually in a boardroom and not a bedroom. It was the same feeling you got when you finished a kick ass presentation, and the client sitting in front of you had a very important decision to make. Only this time, the roles were reversed.  
  
“You’re not the only one in the painting,” you heard yourself say, the way that you hear doctors and nurses talk above your head while they’re putting you to sleep, and the tone of your voice didn’t match the unrest inside you; it was calm, low, almost resigned. You wondered if you were about to split down the middle.  
  
“You’re in the painting,” Justin said, a quiet confirmation.  
  
“And I didn’t know Alan.”  
  
……  
  
He moved closer to you, making you feel somehow safer inside your own skin, and then his hand was resting on your hip when he spoke, “I wish you had, but it really doesn’t matter, does it?” He was practically whispering.  
  
“No,” you admitted, staring at the wall.  
  
……  
  
“Brian, I started that piece on the bus I took back here after Chris’s funeral. It started as a sketch, turned into several partial canvases, and finally became a painting. Alan was at Daniel’s one day when I was there, and he saw it. He liked it; I guess he took one of my sketches with him.”  
  
“Where’s the painting that you did?” you asked.  
  
Justin sighed, in that tired way he does that makes you feel like he’s disappointed with you, “I sold it.”  
  
Of course he did.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_you’ve got the cool water when the fever runs high_  
  
And then something happened in the next minute or so that felt familiar, that you could see even in darkness; something that had happened earlier that night, several times that day, and probably a hundred times since the day you met Brian, but perhaps because of the circumstances, and the fact that this time, those circumstances felt more like more yours than his, you saw it play out in real time.  
  
It was the way he said, “Okay,” the way his body relaxed and welcomed yours. It was the reverse of the way it usually happens because it’s rarely a pull, it’s a push; this switch he makes. And to be honest, you probably could’ve intervened and stopped it, but there was a part of you that needed this other part of him.  
  
The man you were talking to before; he was gone. Your marriage to Brian had essentially made you a polygamist.  
  
But that night, you really didn’t give a shit.  
  
Because all you wanted was to cocoon with the contradiction, to borrow the strength he radiated even when it was built on a scaffolding of fear, to lie there against him while he kissed the side of your face, while his finger traced your jaw line, while he told you he was sorry for waking you up and, “Go back to sleep.”  
  
“I’m not tired,” you said.  
  
……  
  
But when he kissed you, it felt like goodnight.  
  
……  
  
The blankets began to feel heavy, your eyes closed, and still he held you, his hands trying to soothe you in ways that had always worked before.  
  
But you fought sleep for purely selfish reasons that you thought Brian would understand, guiding his hand that was running up and down your back a little lower and holding it there while you kissed him. And when the kiss ended, he made a low, deep sound, “ _Mmm,”_ that seemed more or less a signal that you could relax, that he’d gladly take over.  
  
Your arms snaked around his neck in gratitude, and the two of you lay there kissing for a long time; Brian’s hand wrapped around your thigh, his grip a possessive, intimate comfort.  
  
Had the artist in you been employed that night, he would’ve been drawing parallels—various intersections of your bodies over the years when the contact transcended the physical, when the conduit was exploited as a means to an end, the quickest way to get where one or both of you needed to be, he would’ve painted long, broad strokes in dark, mercurial undertones, leaving the detail for another time—so often at his own expense—and that night would be no different.  
  
But the artist in you was noticeably absent once Brian began to respond to you because you’d banished him that night, perhaps a backhanded slight for stirring the pot—or maybe out of jealousy; maybe you alone wanted all of his attention.  
  
And so little by little you purposely acquiesced, softening your resistance in tiny increments, allowing the thought of surrendering to him exile every other part of you to some revolving baggage claim area where you’d go back and pick it up whenever you wanted.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_my power  
my pleasure  
my pain_  
  
But Brian seemed hesitant, kissing you and then pulling away, his hand supporting your head, looking at you in a way that made you feel like he was sizing you up or something. But then his thumb would caress the side of your face, and he’d smile a little and come back and kiss you again. And this continued for a long time and to comfort yourself you slid your hand over his chest, his stomach, and then stopped between his legs, relieved that he was as hard as you were, “You don’t want to fuck?” you asked.  
  
He laughed a little, a very low tone, the kind of sound he makes when he’s laughing to himself.  
  
“Was there something funny about what I said?” you asked.  
  
“No, there’s something funny about you thinking that I would ever _not_ want to fuck you.”  
  
……  
  
And then for some reason that you wouldn’t understand until later that night, you felt rejected or minimized or something, and although your heart didn’t want to, your body turned away from him, “Well, let me know when you’re ready. You know where I’ll be.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Justin.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Justin.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Brian, just fuck off.”  
  
……  
  
Less than ten minutes later and without a word, Brian got dressed and walked out of your bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_I drink myself of newfound pity  
sitting alone in New York City  
and I don’t know why_  
  
One hour and a crisp hundred dollar bill laying on a bar somewhere, the streets of New York City didn’t look so different from Pittsburgh after all—except that no matter where you walked, you’d never pass by a business you owned, or where one of your friends lived, or a disgusting, condemned bathhouse where you’d fucked half the city in your youth.  
  
And one hour and one hundred dollars later didn’t make the office call you because, hell, they didn’t need you, or your friends because, well, same reason. As far as you could tell, the only person who needed you there was a fucking three-year-old who couldn’t even pronounce your fucking name.  
  
It’s a fucking bullshit lie—okay—no—it’s the fucking bullshit truth that superheroes change into their superhero costumes when they smell trouble. You probably looked a total fucking idiot walking down the streets of New York as a retired gay superhero that never really made it. Even as a superhero, you were fucking pathetic.  
  
In tights.  
  
Justin hadn’t called.  
  
Or maybe he did, and you just couldn’t remember.  
  
Maybe he called you and told you to go home…or maybe that was before.  
  
_I could take a cab and get on the airport and go home but not really too drunk to let me._  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_someone’s knocking at the door,  
somebody’s ringing the bell_  
  
The call came at two twenty-three in the morning, and that’s when Kinney spoke those three little words you never want to hear him say when you’re off the clock, _”Where are you?”_  
  
“Asleep.”  
  
_”I’m fucking serious,”_ he said, but he sounded more like, _”I’m fuckinzebras.”_  
  
“I’m at Dan’s. Where are you?” It had been years since you’d heard Kinney sound like that. _Years._ And then he didn’t answer you.  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“Kinney?”  
  
“Boss Man?”  
  
You looked at your phone:  
  
_Called ended. 00:54_  
  
……  
  
By the time you pissed and put some pants on, he was ringing Daniel’s doorbell over and over and over. You flew down the stairs and opened the door, “Would you fucking stop that?”  
  
_“Stopwhah?”_ he asked, leaning against the door frame.  
  
It was the only thing holding him up.  
  
……  
  
“What are you doing here?” you asked, stepping outside the door, shutting it behind you.  
  
“Free country. Lemme in; I need to piss.”  
  
“You can piss in the bushes.”  
  
But Kinney decided he was going in anyway, so you physically stopped him, “You’re _not_ going in there.” (Apparently, he’d forgotten that he actually pays you to bounce.)  
  
“Get your fucking hands off of me.”  
  
“Piss in the dirt.”  
  
So he did, very deliberately—only not in the dirt--right on the blood stain on the sidewalk instead. When he finished, he zipped up and smiled at you, “All done.”  
  
“I’m going to start some coffee. I’ll be right back.”  
  
“Have fun, Martha Screw It.”  
  
……  
  
You walked back inside, shut the door, locked it, and then saw Daniel standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?”  
  
“It’s Kinney. He’s smashed. He wants to come in; I told him no.”  
  
“He’s upset?” Daniel asked.  
  
“He doesn’t exactly get upset; he gets—"  
  
“Angry?”  
  
“To put it mildly.”  
  
"Is Justin with him?"  
  
"No."  
  
“He can come in; it’s okay.”  
  
“You sure?” (Jonathon had told you once that Daniel was one of those people that gets off on pain or something. You figured he must be right.)  
  
“Yeah. I’ll go get dressed.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_give us a tantrum  
and a know-it-all grin_  
  
When you opened the door to invite Brian inside, he was sitting on your front steps, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his head leaning against the railing. “That doesn’t look very comfortable,” you told him, “You’re welcome to come inside.”  
  
He seemed surprised to see you, “The ever-generous, benevolent doctor. Weren’t you on _Little House on the Prairie_ for a while?”  
  
“Would you like to come in, Brian?”  
  
“Yes, I would,” he replied, imitating your polite tone. “Thank you very much.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
You’d hoped that he’d come in and sit down, but Brian had other ideas, refusing your offer of fresh, hot coffee and taking an unsolicited (and rather unsteady) tour of your home instead, commenting on the décor and its owner. He started in your bedroom after inviting himself up the stairs. You stood in the doorway, holding Zeek back, watching Brian as he flopped down in your chair, threw his very black boots on your very white ottoman, and asked what the fuck that fucking thing was hanging over your fucking bed.  
  
“The painting?” you asked. It was one of Justin’s.  
  
“Did you buy it from him?” Brian asked, “Or was that he way he paid his rent?”  
  
“I didn’t charge Justin rent.”  
  
“So he gave it to you?”  
  
“I didn’t pay him for it, so, yes, I guess he gave it to me,” you admitted.  
  
“And all the others? Same with them. Gifts?”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“Did he give them to you before or after he stopped fucking you?”  
  
“After,” you conceded. "Although I don't think one has anything to do with the other."  
  
“Well, that makes perfect sense,” Brian said, standing, but using the chair for balance, “Because the only passion in this whole fucking place is on the fucking walls.” And then he got right in your face in the doorway, towering over you, his breath reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, “Do you frame all of your fucks?”  
  
And when you didn’t move and didn’t answer him, he got even closer, “You know, for _posterity_ , for when they’re not around anymore?”  
  
( _”Please just let me punch him,”_ Zeek begged from behind you.  
  
“No.”)  
  
“You don’t like that I have Justin’s work displayed in my home?” you asked your accuser as he shoved passed you.  
  
He laughed, “I think it’s pathetic.”  
  
“You don’t have any of Justin’s paintings in your home?” you asked.  
  
“Not the same,” he slurred, holding onto the railing, ready to go back downstairs.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because I have him.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_so when u call up that shrink in Beverly Hills  
u know the one - Dr Everything'll Be Alright_  
  
When you and Zeek managed to corral Brian into the kitchen, get him to sit at the kitchen table, and accept a cup of coffee, you asked him, “What about all the years you didn’t have him? When he was here?”  
  
Brian ignored your question, preferring the role of inquisitor, “Has he ever painted a picture of you, Doc?”  
  
“Not that I know of, but I’ve seen several that he’s done of you.”  
  
Brian smiled, but not in a friendly way. “He has good taste.”  
  
“He loves you.”  
  
……  
  
“He loves me,” Brian repeated, but his tone had changed, the anger in his tone had morphed into something else—something weird, distant. You took it as an opportunity to change the subject,  
  
“Brian, where’s Justin right now?”  
  
He thought about it for a few seconds, “In bed. All by himself. Naked.”  
  
“Does he—" but he interrupted you.  
  
“You can go over there if you want and see for yourself,” he added. “He’s ready and waiting.”  
  
“Does he know where you are?”  
  
“Yes and no.”  
  
Zeek looked at you, rolling his eyes, as if Brian’s responses were exactly what he was expecting.  
  
“What does, ‘Yes and no,’ mean?” you asked.  
  
Brian laughed, “It means that no, he doesn’t know where I am, and yes, he does.”  
  
You filled his coffee cup again, “You mean this is a pattern in your relationship?”  
  
“Re-la-tion- _ship_ ,” he said, “They call it that because it can sink.” And then he made his index finger a torpedo and sunk it into his hot coffee complete with torpedo sound effects. “Ow, fuck. Shit.”  
  
Zeek got up, got him a glass of ice water and stuck his hand in it, “Here, you idiot.”  
  
And while Brian was nursing his self-inflicted wound, you excused yourself, went into your office and called Justin’s cell. It went directly to voice mail. You left a message.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_in a white room with black curtains_  
  
When you came out of your office, Brian was lying on his back on your living room floor. Zeek was sitting on your sofa staring at you, his eyes begging you to let him put Brian out of his misery. At first, you thought that Brian had passed out, but when you sat down beside Zeek, you could see that he was very much awake. Brian turned his head and looked at you, and although you were sitting at a higher elevation, you felt like you had absolutely no power in that room.  
  
Brian, quite literally and figuratively, had the floor.  
  
But you took the lead anyway, “Brian, I just called Justin’s cell phone and left a message so he’d know where you were and wouldn’t worry.”  
  
“Is that just one of the many amenities you have to offer here at Dr. Dan’s Bed and Breakfast?”  
  
“Did you want Justin to worry about you?”  
  
His eyes moved to the ceiling, where they would stay for a long time, “He’s not worried; he wants me to go home.”  
  
“Why does he want you to go home?”  
  
“Because he’s worried.”  
  
(Zeek spun his finger beside his ear, “ _Whacko._ ” You reached up, grabbed his hand and pushed it down, shaking your head at him.)  
  
“Why’s he worried about you, Brian?”  
  
“Because they tried to kill him.”  
  
His voice was getting harder and harder to understand. You found yourself leaning forward, your elbows on your knees, “Who tried to kill him?”  
  
“The cops.”  
  
“The cops tried to kill Justin?”  
  
“The cops tried to kill Alan.”  
  
“The cops did kill Alan, Brian.”  
  
……  
  
And then Brian seemed to freeze, and Zeek got very anxious, picking up a crayon and a coloring book of Amelia’s off the coffee table and scrawling on it: _He pissed on the blood stain on the sidewalk._  
  
(“When?” you asked.  
  
“Tonight, when he got here. I wouldn’t let him come inside.”)  
  
And when you glanced back at Brian, he looked completely disconnected—gone--except for the tears pouring down either side of his face.  
  
“Shit,” you said. “I’ll be back in a second.”  
  
“Where are you going?” Zeek asked.  
  
“To call Jonathon. Do you know Justin’s room number?”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_trust in your calling_  
  
Daniel’s second call that night meant that you and Father Dick had to cease yet another one of your favorite carnal pastimes: Pope on a Rope. You untied Father Dick from the headboard, explaining to him that the two you had been hand-picked for a mission of mercy which Father Dick said he was totally up for (no pun intended, he promised you) as long as it didn’t involve a third world country.  
  
“Hardly,” you replied. “We’re going to The Regency.”  
  
“Well, they’re definitely not a tax write-off,” he replied. (Being a priest and all, Father Dick was always averse to referring to those less fortunate than himself as ‘charity cases.’)  
  
……  
  
“I’m sorry, sir,” the concierge told you, “I can’t give out room numbers. I can ring the room, but if the guest doesn’t answer, there’s nothing I can do.”  
  
You tried to remain calm, “I appreciate your protocol, but I’m Mr. Taylor’s physician and Father Donnelly is his spiritual advisor, and we need to see him immediately. So either give me his room number or take me up there because if you don’t, you’re going to be the one responsible when the shit hits the fan.” You flashed your Mt. Sinai badge in the guy’s face.  
  
“Yeah,” Father Dick said, you know, like he was twelve or something.  
  
“Okay, follow me please.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
The two of you were escorted to an elevator and watched while it was opened with a key. When you got to the right floor, the doors opened, and the concierge said, “Here you go.”  
  
“Which one is theirs? They’re not numbered,” you asked.  
  
“All of them. It’s their floor.”  
  
And then the elevator closed and he was gone.  
  
So Father Dick opened the first door he saw and said, “Nope. Linen closet,” and then kept going, “Nope. Coat closet. Nope. Bathroom. Nope—"  
  
“Would you cut that out? The bedroom’s this way.”  
  
When you knocked on the door (that you prayed was really the bedroom), you heard something, turned, and smiled a little at Father Dick, mostly out of nervousness, and then heard something else, _“What’s your problem? Are you too drunk to turn a doorknob?”_  
  
“This,” you told Father Dick, “Is why I don’t do couples counseling.”  
  
“Same here.”  
  
“Justin, it’s Jonathon.”  
  
……  
  
“Justin?”  
  
……  
  
“ _It’s unlocked.”_  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_wrong way on a one way track_  
  
Again you emerged from your office that night and again things had changed. Zeek was sitting on the floor next to Brian, holding a glass of water in his hand. “He asked me for it,” Zeek said, “But he won’t sit up.”  
  
And then Zeek stood up, urging you toward the kitchen so he could talk to you privately, “He keeps telling me that he wants to see him before they take him away.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“It’s like he thinks you’re his doctor.”  
  
“You mean Justin’s?” you asked.  
  
“I think so. He’s freaking me out.”  
  
“Jon went to pick up Justin. They’ll be here shortly.”  
  
……  
  
The two of you walked back into the living room and sat on the floor on opposite sides of Brian, and then Brian looked right at Zeek, so Zeek said, “You gonna be all right, Boss Man?”  
  
“Dumb mother fucker.”  
  
“Did he just call me a dumb mother fucker?” Zeek asked you.  
  
“I don’t think so,” you told him.  
  
“Dumb mother fucker,” Brian mumbled again, his eyes closing for a few seconds.  
  
You reassured Zeek that Brian wasn’t talking to him. “He’s lost his fucking mind, hasn’t he, Doc?”  
  
“No,” you told him, “He’s just confused.”  
  
And while you and Zeek waited for Justin to arrive, you’d check your watch every minute or so, and then Brian opened his eyes again, staring at Zeek like he knew him, demanding, “I want to see him.”  
  
“Brian, Justin will be here in a few minutes. He’s on his way,” you told him.  
  
“In the ambulance,” he mumbled, and then his eyes closed.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_a little out of touch, a little insane,  
it's just easier than dealing with the pain_  
  
When you heard the key in the door about five minutes later, you got up off the floor, anxious to see everyone. The place had gotten eerily quiet since Brian had fallen asleep, and after all, it was almost four a.m. by that point. Jonathon walked in first, but Justin emerged quickly from behind him, “What happened? Where is he?”  
  
“He’s right there,” you said, whispering and pointing to the floor, “He just fell asleep.”  
  
“He’s drunk as shit,” Zeek added. “No need to whisper.”  
  
Before you could tell him anything else, Justin walked over and sat down next to Brian, holding his hand in his lap, straightening his hair, his shirt, and Brian’s eyes fluttered for a few seconds, opened, and then just stared at Justin, like he was the last person he ever expected to see, “Sunshine.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“I think I’m drunk on the floor.”  
  
“You are drunk on the floor. Why did you come here?” Justin asked him.  
  
Brian licked his lips while a crease formed in his forehead; the answer wasn’t coming to him very quickly, ”Cause you’re in the hospital.”  
  
“No, Brian—"  
  
“At night is when I come to see you.”  
  
“Brian—"  
  
But Brian silenced him, putting his finger over Justin’s lips, “Shh, it’s a secret.”  
  
“No, Brian, it’s not a secret,” Justin told him, holding his hand again, “It’s a memory.”  
  
“It’s a dream,” Brian countered, as if this was all a just semantic battle.  
  
And then Jonathon looked at you, his eyebrows raised-- _how long are you going to let this go on?_ , and you ignored him because Justin was starting to lose his composure.  
  
“I’m not in the hospital, Brian. That was a long time ago. Remember?”  
  
“I wanna fuck you a lot.”  
  
“Not right now.”  
  
“Not ready yet,” Brian said, “S’okay.”  
  
And then Justin looked at you, hopeless, his eyes reddening around the edges, “I don’t know what to do.”  
  
……  
  
A few minutes later the decision was made: Zeek helped you move the coffee table over; Jonathon got a blanket and a pillow from the guest room; the lights were dimmed, and everyone sat very quietly at the dining room table except for Justin who was lying on the floor with Brian, staying with him until he was sound asleep.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_doctor says you’re cured,  
but you still feel the pain_  
  
When Justin got up less than fifteen minutes later, he sat on your couch the way you always remembered him, his legs tucked underneath him, his arms wrapped in front of him, clicking his thumbnail against his teeth. Father Dick had gone back to Jonathon’s; Zeek had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, so it was just you, Justin, and Jonathon sitting above Brian who was snoring on the floor.  
  
Justin, assuming he owed the two of you quite the explanation, told the story that unbeknownst to him you’d unraveled earlier that evening, and you and Jonathon listened as though it were the first time you’d ever heard it, and it might as well have been because hearing it from Justin was completely different from reading an article in an newspaper.  
  
“Does Harper know about this?” Jonathon asked at one point.  
  
“I never told her,” Justin said. “I guess I never told anybody, really.”  
  
When Justin finished his rendition, you asked, “So you asked him to your prom, he turned you down, and then showed up unannounced?”  
  
“Yeah,” Justin said. “So they tell me.”  
  
“So you don’t even remember the best part of the story?” you asked him.  
  
He shook his head. “All I remember is him turning me down, and then calling my name in the parking garage right before Chris swung the bat. That’s it.”  
  
“Brian’s memory is in tact?” Jonathon asked.  
  
“Unfortunately,” Justin said. “Sometimes I wish it wasn’t.”  
  
“When Brian got here tonight,” you told Justin, “He was really angry about how much of your artwork that I have on display. He was trying to bait me, implying that it was a consolation prize for a failed relationship or something.”  
  
Justin sighed, “I don’t know why, but ever since we’ve been back together, we’ve been having these bizarre arguments about my artwork.”  
  
“What do you mean?” you asked.  
  
“It’s hard to explain. It started because he bought a painting from my first show, didn’t even tell me—"  
  
“Which painting?” you asked.  
  
“That huge mural. It didn’t have a name.”  
  
“The one we were standing in front of when I met you?”  
  
_'I was drawn to this piece in particular because, well, it has such a quiet violence about it.'  
  
'Isn’t that an oxymoron? Quiet violence?'  
  
'I don’t know. You painted it. You tell me.'_  
  
Justin’s eyebrows rose, “Actually, yeah. It was that one. He bought it before the show even started. So, I’m up here thinking my art is selling like hot cakes and he’s buying a chunk of it himself. Fucking pissed me off. So, I told him that it pissed me off-"  
  
“What’d he say?”  
  
"'It’s called capitalism, Justin.'"  
  
Jonathon laughed, “I’m sorry, that’s not a very sensitive thing to say, but it is sort of funny.”  
  
“We’ve been having these weird tug-o-wars about my work ever since. It’ll die down for a while and then come back, and I swear, sometimes I have no fucking clue what we’re fighting about, but it’s something because we’re both off kilter until we resolve it. When he saw that painting in the tunnels today, it set him off again.”  
  
“Did you talk to him about it?” Jonathon asked.  
  
Justin shook his head again, a defeated, almost guilty posture overtaking him, “No, I shut him down. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m over this shit. I want to think about my future, not my past.”  
  
“Is that why you didn’t tell any of us that this had happened to you?” you asked.  
  
“I guess so. I guess I thought that coming here, you know, like an idiot, that I could leave that part of me behind.”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_well, it's too late tonight to drag the past out into the light_  
  
Watching Daniel and Justin talk that night—well—they both needed it. Daniel needed to understand and Justin needed to explain, even if it was just to himself. You could feel yourself sinking into the background, almost astounded at how often you knew Justin had raised a paintbrush to tackle the subject at hand and yet made so little progress; there had to be a reason. And you didn’t interrupt until Justin seemed to be slowing down, until his telling of the story began to focus on Brian again, until the three of you began to focus once again on the snoring dilemma on the floor. You had questions…  
  
“Justin, there’s twelve years between the two of you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So Brian was thirty when this happened to you?”  
  
“Yes."  
  
“And he’s about to be forty?”  
  
Daniel’s head turned in your direction, his way of saying _two points for you_ , as Justin replied, “In a few weeks.”  
  
“How’s he feel about turning forty?” you asked Justin.  
  
Justin laughed, “There are two subjects Brian will not discuss. One is erectile dysfunction and the other is his age.”  
  
“You said that ever since you came back, the two of you have been arguing about your artwork?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“That didn’t happen before?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“When you came back, did Brian seem different than how you remembered him?”  
  
Justin smiled then, the first time since he’d started talking, “Yeah, he did. He does, I mean. He’s calmer, more confident, rather than arrogant. He’s considerate, sweet.” And then he stopped and started again, “Okay, now I’m just freaking myself out. I would’ve never described him like that to someone else before now. I mean, he’s always been all those things, but not outwardly. I always knew that he loved me, but it’s almost like he wants people to know now. He doesn’t run from it at all. Sometimes it catches me off guard; I’m not used to it.”  
  
“Shit, Justin. You just made me cry,” Daniel said.  
  
Justin laughed, “I know. Me, too. God, this is fucked up.”  
  
“I noticed it in the restaurant tonight,” Daniel told him, “I remember now because I asked him about that painting, and he got uncomfortable. He looked at you, and you got up, and I felt like I was watching synchronized swimming or something.”  
  
“The first time I saw him after I got out of my coma was in a bar we used to go to, and I was freaking out because I couldn’t handle being in crowds or anything. He had this look in his eyes of sheer terror, frozen in place—"  
  
“Because he blames himself,” Daniel said, “Watching you struggle—"  
  
“He had to teach me how to walk down a busy street,” Justin admitted quietly. “And I saw that tonight. I can’t stand to see that look on his face.”  
  
“So, it’s both of you,” you said, “It’s a mutually intuitive rescue squad.” ( _Note to self: patent that phrase._ )  
  
It was a coping mechanism in their relationship that you suspected had run its course, a perpetual rescue after the fact that no one seemed to be benefiting from anymore. But there was more that you wanted to know because there was something else at play there, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on…  
  
“Justin, what happened to the guy who hit you?”  
  
“He’s dead.”  
  
“No, I mean before that. Was there a trial?”  
  
“Yeah, it was a joke. He got community service in an AIDS hospice.”  
  
“How did you feel about that?”  
  
“I was still trying to hold a tennis ball.”  
  
A skillful dodge. You tried again, “Okay, how did Brian feel about it?”  
  
“He expected it. That’s the way the world works.”  
  
“He didn’t expect justice to be done?”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Justin smiled after he answered you; it was very subtle, but it was there, and it struck you as an odd reaction considering the subject of the conversation.  
  
“He didn’t want to go after this guy personally—before or after the trial--and teach him a lesson?”  
  
Justin laughed a little, “That’s not the way Brian works. He prefers a more civilized approach. He’d much rather destroy your reputation or kill your market share than beat the shit out of you.”  
  
You let your frustration with the situation bleed into your voice a little. Daniel caught on immediately, and as you leaned forward to push Justin a little, he leaned back. “Why? Didn’t he have a right to be furious with this kid for almost killing you, and, for that matter, right in front of his fucking face?”  
  
And still no anger from Justin, still picture perfect civility, “Brian believes that you should take your anger and put it into your work.”  
  
“Is that what he tells you?”  
  
“All the time.”  
  
“And now you’re arguing about your work? Having these tug-o-wars as you described them?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Why do you think that is?”  
  
Daniel looked at you for a split second, and even in that instant, you could read him like a book: _Call on me, call on me. Please, please, I know the answer._ But Justin didn’t seem to notice Daniel’s quiet epiphany, he was staring at Brian on the floor, concentrating, thinking, making you feel like the three of you were on Jeopardy. You were about to give him a hint when he looked up and answered you:  
  
“You probably won’t understand this, but I’m not sure I care.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_these are the words I never said_  
  
“Jon, let’s just call it a night, okay?” you asked your best friend. “We can finish this some other time.”  
  
You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve asked Jonathon to leave your home, even after that one, but he did as you requested. You walked him to your front door, stepping outside on the front steps with him for just a minute.  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him,” he told you.  
  
“It’s not your fault. I’m the one that told you to go get him,” you conceded.  
  
“We’re off our game tonight, I guess,” he told you, but you knew he didn’t really believe that.  
  
“No, we’re on our game. That’s the problem.”  
  
“You can bring a man to a couch but you can’t make him shrink, right?”  
  
You laughed and then asked, “Did you just make that up?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You better patent that phrase.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“I’m sorry I kept you up all night,” you told him.  
  
“Well, it would’ve been you or Father Dick. I was going to be up one way or the other.”  
  
“I think I just threw up in my mouth.”  
  
And then he hugged you, something he hadn’t done in a long time, “Everything will work out, Dan. I promise.”  
  
“I know. Thanks. I'll see you...later today, I guess."  
  
"Get some sleep, please," he advised you before disappearing into a taxi.  
  
……  
  
Back inside, you closed and locked your front door and then walked back into the living room to tell Justin good night. He was still sitting on the sofa where you left him, cross-legged with a throw pillow in his lap. You weren’t even going to sit down; you felt like you and Jonathon had done enough damage for one evening, but when you went to tell him good night you got the feeling he didn’t want you to walk away.  
  
“You okay?” you asked.  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Sure.” You sat down beside him.  
  
He didn’t look at you; he stared at his fingers perched on top of the pillow as he spoke, “Have you even been angry at someone that you knew you didn’t have a right to be angry at?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you have a right to be angry at someone?”  
  
“Because he saved my life.”  
  
……  
  
You cross your legs, extended your arm over the back of your sofa, and inhaled, “Justin, a feeling is just a feeling. You can have as many as you want in as many varieties as you want whenever you want about whatever you want.”  
  
“I love him.”  
  
“You can be angry at someone you love. It’s okay. It’s usually pretty healthy.”  
  
And then finally he looked at you, “It’s just that he thinks this is all about him, and it’s not. This is about me. It happened to me. I’m the one who got hit upside the head. I’m the one who could’ve been a vegetable. I’m the one who had to lay in that fucking hospital bed wondering where the fuck he was, who had to learn how to hold a pencil again, who had to figure out who I was again. Hell, my personality was gone; for awhile, I didn’t even have that. I’m the one that fought with Chris at school, who provoked—hell--humiliated him in the street in front of all of his straight friends, and not once has Brian ever told me that I might have brought this on myself or told me that I should take responsibility for my part in that whole thing. I mean, if I hadn’t done those things, maybe Chris wouldn’t have clubbed me over the head, and then maybe Brian wouldn’t revert to the mess he is right now every time something happens that reminds him of what happened to me.”  
  
And then he took a deep breath, trying in vain to suck tears back into his eyes.  
  
"Whoa," you said, handing him the box of Kleenex from the coffee table, "You've never said that to anybody have you?"  
  
He blew his nose, "No," and then pointed to Brian’s slumbering form, “How am I supposed to tell him these things when he’s so fucked up? I’m just going to make him worse. I don't want him to suffer anymore. I swear to god, Daniel; I can't stand it."  
  
"Okay. It's okay for you to feel this way."  
  
"I mean, Chris has been dead for three years, and he's still a mess. I love him so much, I--"  
  
"You can feel his pain."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
“Sometimes it seems like you don’t have much faith in him, Justin.”  
  
“Look at him, Daniel. You saw him. He was in your house doing his thing. How am I supposed to have faith in that?”  
  
“You want my opinion?”  
  
“Yes. And not just because you’re a shrink, but because you’re my friend.”  
  
“Okay, but I’ll warn you, you might not like all of it.”  
  
“I’m way past that point now, okay?”  
  
You smiled, “Okay,” and then got comfortable on your end of the sofa while Justin got comfortable on his. “The anger that Brian tells you to put into your work—"  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“What Jonathon was trying to get at before you stopped him was that Brian may be trying to take some of that back. He’s older now, Justin. You said yourself that he’s changed. He may be ready to face some of this.” Justin seemed okay with that, so you kept going.  
  
"You think we're fighting because I won't let him have the anger back?"  
  
"In a very over-simplified way, yes. I think he might be trying to do things differently, and you're resisting him."  
  
"Well, why the fuck doesn't he just tell me that, then?"  
  
"I think he's trying to, Justin, but this is new territory for him. Your return probably set a lot of dormant feelings into motion, and he may not be conscious of what's going on."  
  
Justin looked at Brian's inebriated form on the floor in front of the sofa, "Yeah, conscious is not a word I would use to describe him at this juncture."  
  
"And now that I think about it, several times tonight, he said something about you sending him home."  
  
"I'm trying to protect him."  
  
"Do you like it when he's over-protective of you?" you asked him.  
  
"No."  
  
The two of you talked for an hour, until you were both too tired to talk anymore, and Justin concluded your conversation by asking,  
  
“And you don’t think that talking about this stuff is going to fuck Brian up even worse?”  
  
“Justin, there is no ‘even worse.’ The man thinks you came here tonight in an ambulance. He thinks I’m your trauma surgeon, and I’m not positive, but I think he thought Zeek was 'Nurse Mother Fucker.'"  
  
“ _Yo, I heard that, Dr. Jekyll.”_  
  
I knew he was awake,” you told Justin, dodging a pillow that Zeek was hurling in your direction.  
  
“Me, too,” Justin said, his laughter infected with exhaustion.  
  
It had been one hell of a bumpy night.  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Bread’s _If_ , U2’s _One_ , Vertical Horizon’s _Everything You Want_ , Joan Osborne’s _What if God Was One of Us?_ , Vertical Horizon’s _Angel’s Without Wings_ , the Dave Matthew’s Band _Crash_ , REM’s _I Believe_ , Dave Matthews Band’s _Ants Marching_ , Paul Simon’s _Something So Right_ , Seal’s _Kiss From a Rose_ , Collective Soul’s _The World I Know_ , The Beatles’s _Let ‘Em In_ , Sarah McLachlan’s _Building A Mystery_ , Prince’s _Let’s Go Crazy_ , Cream’s _White Room_ , REM’s _I Believe_ again, Soul Asylum’s _Runaway Train_ twice, Howard Jones’s _No One Is To Blame_ , U2’s _One_ , and Annie Lennox’s _Why_.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , [](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_goddess**](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)


	39. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 36-Sheperds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 1/15/07]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 36-SHEPHERDS**  
  
**SAM COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_the confusion sets in  
before the doctor can even close the door_  
  
Months after Amelia was born, when she was sleeping through the night, you told Harper you were going to have dinner with an old friend of yours and left your apartment one December evening with a mission of a different sort. You told Daniel you’d be at his place around seven, that you needed to talk to him—alone—and when you arrived, Justin wasn’t there. Daniel heard you on the steps and opened the door before you could even knock and invited you in, fed you even though you told him you’d already eaten (perhaps he knew you were lying), and listened attentively like he always did when you came to him concerned about Harper. You’d been having these impromptu sessions with him five months into Harper’s pregnancy since the night you came home to find a brand new copy of every ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ book on your kitchen table and were told that they were for you to read, “To make sure I’m doing everything right.” You argued with her that night, until you realized that you weren’t arguing with the woman you married but rather some bizarre hybrid of a terrified child and a distant, unfeeling parent that kept clashing together like mismatched cymbals as you tried to reason with her. That night you were there for some reassurance because you had read a few of those books, and Harper wasn’t exactly a textbook mother.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Daniel asked you, as you were shredding a roll he’d given you, “You’re upset.”  
  
“She doesn’t wake up.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“In the middle of the night, when Amelia cries, she never wakes up.”  
  
“Okay. You mean lately?”  
  
“She never has,” you said, feeling guilty for not telling him this months ago, but you were afraid to, afraid that there was something really wrong with Harper, something that couldn’t be fixed. “Like tonight, I only came here tonight because Amelia’s been sleeping for several hours at a time now; she won’t wake up for at least three hours,” you confessed, checking your watch.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I should’ve told you this before; I know.”  
  
“It’s okay; calm down. Just give me a scenario, so I understand what you mean.”  
  
You drank the water he gave you, “Okay, so like at night, she feeds Amelia and puts her to bed and even when Amelia was sleeping in her bassinette in our room and would wake up in two hours ready to breastfeed again, Harper wouldn’t wake up. I’d wake up and have to get Amelia and bring her to Harper and wake Harper up to feed her.”  
  
“Would she stay awake while she fed her?”  
  
“Sometimes at first, but less and less. I stay awake. I wouldn’t say she’s totally asleep, but she’s pretty useless.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“Now, she just goes back to sleep.”  
  
“She knows you’re there.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess so.”  
  
“Did you ever suggest weaning her onto formula?” he asked you.  
  
“No, god no.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I don’t know; I just couldn’t I guess. It’s not like she ignores Amelia or doesn’t want to feed her; they bond. It’s like she just can’t stay in the moment. She knows she’s feeding Amelia; she knows I’m there helping her; she just can’t stay awake.” You started to panic, “Am I doing the wrong thing? Did I screw something up?”  
  
“No, no. Calm down. It’s okay.” He reached across the table and held your hand, “Would you please breathe?”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“How much has Harper told you about her mother’s death?” he asked you.  
  
“Not much. She talks about it when she’s drunk, but she got pregnant pretty quick, so she hasn’t been drunk in a long time,” you laughed. “And now, she’s breastfeeding, so—"  
  
“Right...  
  
“Ordinarily, I’d say it was Harper’s decision to talk to you about this, but I doubt she ever will. What I know, I know from Alan. She’s filled in some details for me, verified his version, and I’ve done a little research on it, but I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to talk to you about it because she was so young. They both were so young.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“The information is so old it’s practically public knowledge if you know where to look.”  
  
“Just tell me.”  
  
“Harper’s memories of her mother, and Alan’s, for that matter, are of her living in a mental institution. Ruth was clinically depressed; she was having bi-weekly ECT treatments and improving, depending on whose version of the story you believe. During their childhood, Alan had a very difficult time dealing with the absence of his mother; he was a chronic bed-wetter and wasn’t able to make it through the night without voiding. When he was five and Harper was six, their father took their mother out of the hospital because he was tired of the stigma of mental illness surrounding his family; he didn’t believe Ruth was really sick, etc. She didn’t want to come home.”  
  
“I never knew she came home.”  
  
“Ruth couldn’t sleep when she came home, probably because she had no meds, was going through a cruel withdrawal because James had pulled her out with no regard for her own adjustment, so she was always awake at night, sitting in the dark watching television when Alan would wake up because he’d wet the bed.  
  
“Alan wasn’t afraid of his mother, like he was of his father; she was compassionate. So, when he woke up wet, he’d go to her, and she’d help him get changed, strip his bed, and then he’d climb into bed with Harper for the rest of the night. It happened every night. Before Ruth came home, it was just Alan changing his clothes and climbing into bed with her; after Ruth came home, she was tucking him in, both of them really; it’s one of Alan’s fondest memories of his mother.”  
  
“He woke her up every single night,” you repeated.  
  
“Ruth killed herself in the middle of the night, slit her wrists in the bathtub and bled out. Alan found her when he woke up. He, in turn, woke Harper up. It doesn’t surprise me that Harper doesn’t wake up when Amelia cries or stay awake when she’s feeding; it’s a defense mechanism. There are too many things she’s afraid she’ll remember.”  
  
Daniel hardly looked at you while he explained all of Harper’s background, and when he finally did look up and saw the expression on your face, he reached across the table and held both of your hands to stop them from shaking, “Sam, it’s okay. Listen to me, it’s okay. These things are not in her conscious mind.”  
  
“Right,” you said, not believing a fucking word that was coming out of his mouth.  
  
“They’re not. Her reactions, trust me, they’re no different than the way you or I respond to a hot stove. We’ve been burned once; we know better than to touch it again. That’s all it is. We don’t relive the burn every single time.”  
  
“You do if it burnt your fucking hand off, Daniel.”  
  
“Not if you were too young to make sense of it. She didn’t process this stuff they way we do when we hear it now. She was a child; it’s different.”  
  
“I married scar tissue.”  
  
“Sam.”  
  
“You should’ve told me this a long time ago,” you told him as you got up to leave, throwing your dishes in his sink.  
  
He followed you, his voice getting more and more agitated, “I didn’t know there was anything wrong, Sam. _Please_ , don’t just walk—"  
  
You let the door slam shut behind you.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_when something goes right,  
well, it’s likely to lose me_  
  
When you got home that night, Amelia wasn’t in her crib or her room and Harper wasn’t in her bed. You found both of them in the guest room/office that you and Harper shared. She was rocking Amelia in the dark, the chair facing the window away from the door. Harper didn’t say anything to you came in the room.  
  
“Is she okay?” you asked her.  
  
“She woke up; she has gas.”  
  
“Oh.” You sat down at the desk the two of you shared, pushing papers and books out of the way.  
  
“I know where you were,” she said quietly, an emotionless statement of fact. “Justin saw you going in; he was across the street. He called to catch up.”  
  
“Did you get to talk to him?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, it was nice. How was your conversation?”  
  
The guilt of going to Daniel’s behind Harper’s back, of storming out on him was beginning to corrode your conscience, “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”  
  
She nodded, keeping her attention on Amelia as she had since you’d walked in. You went into your bedroom, closed the door, and called Daniel. He answered in the middle of the first ring, _“Hello?”_  
  
“It’s me. Sam. Look, I’m sorry.”  
  
_”I don’t care if you’re angry at me, just don’t upset her. I shouldn’t have told you without her permission. Please don’t delve into this stuff with her when you’re angry.”_  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
_”Sam, I’m serious.”_  
  
“I won’t. I’m not going to hurt her, regardless of how I feel. I could never do that.”  
  
_”Thank you.”_  
  
You returned to your office just as Harper was getting up, “She’s asleep. I’m going to put her back down.” You went back into your bedroom to wait for her.  
  
There were art books open all over your bed, and when she came back in, she started closing them and stacking them back beside your bed, making room for the two of you to sit down. She sat next to you cross-legged, pulling her feet toward her body as you laid down, her voice firm, “Don’t put walls between us that don’t exist, Sam. We’re not your parents.”  
  
“That’s not fair.”  
  
“You can talk to me.”  
  
“Sometimes I just can’t, Harper. I try, but I just can’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Sometimes it feels like the stakes are too high,” you admitted, ashamed of yourself for some reason.  
  
“I have enough of this self-doubt inside me for both of us; I don’t need you piling it on top of me, Sam.”  
  
“Love, marriage, fatherhood, all of it makes me an idiot,” you told her.  
  
……  
  
That night in bed as the two of you tried to fall asleep, she said one more thing on the subject, “Sam?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I don’t care if you need to talk to someone; I don’t even care if it’s Daniel. Just don’t lie to me; that’s all.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
……  
  
Amelia woke up crying around two forty-five that morning, and true-to-form, Harper stayed sound asleep. You walked into your daughter’s room, picked her up and held her for a minute because it always calmed her down a little and then you changed her to see if that was all she needed, but Amelia still wasn’t satisfied, so you took her to bed with you, laying her between you and Harper, waking Harper up as gently as you could, “She’s hungry, babe.”  
  
"’Kay,” she said, getting in the right position, helping Amelia get comfortable, and when Amelia began to suck, you leaned forward and kissed Harper. She smiled and you kept kissing her, Amelia nestled between you, until you realized that Amelia wasn’t feeding anymore. And right as you realized this, thinking that your closeness to Harper was crowding your daughter, Amelia looked up and you, smiled, and released the loudest gaseous emission you’ve ever heard from a little baby.  
  
Both you and Harper busted out laughing.  
  
“She’s not hungry, you idiot,” Harper whispered, “She had to fart.”  
  
“My bad.”  
  
Harper looked down at Amelia who was enjoying all the attention and playing with Harper’s breast, “Your daddy is not very smart sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, he’s well-intentioned, but he just woke me up so I could supervise your fart.”  
  
Amelia said, “Ah-ah,” like she and Harper discussed your incompetence all the time. And then she scrunched up her little face and farted again.  
  
“Now she’s just mocking you, Sam.”  
  
“I can see that.”  
  
But then Amelia squeezed Harper’s nipple too hard, and she had to go back to her crib. “Serves you right,” you told her, “Making a fool out of your Daddy. Night, night, sweet girl.”  
  
Little did you know it was just the beginning.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_so caught up in you, little girl_  
  
So when you woke up that Thursday morning to the sound of a little voice going, “It’s ‘squisite, so ‘squisite,” you knew Amelia was in bed with you looking at one of Harper’s art books, and when you heard the shower running, you knew that Harper had just gotten up on her own before eight a.m. for the first time since the two of you were married. When you opened your eyes to peek at Amelia and realized that she wasn’t looking at one of Harper’s art books, but rather one of Harper’s _illustrated_ Kama Sutra coffee table books, you tried to close them again really, really fast in the hopes that she hadn’t seen you, but, alas, she had.  
  
“Hi, Daddy.”  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“I’m looking at the pretty pictures all by myself.”  
  
“I can see that.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s a really ‘squisite pemis. Wanna see it?”  
  
“That’s okay; I think I’ve seen it before.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s so ‘squisite.”  
  
You put your head under the covers and prayed she was moving onto vaginas. Vaginas all by themselves. Lonely, exquisite vaginas. But she lifted up the covers thinking you were playing a game with her and told you, “You’re ‘upposed to give me a baf when Mommy is all dry.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Not wif bubbles ‘cause it makes my ‘gina itch.”  
  
“Okay. No bubbles.”  
  
And when Harper emerged from the bathroom, a towel on her head and one wrapped around her, Amelia closed the book and stood up on the bed with her arms out, “Mommy, I wanna give you a hug ‘cause you look _so_ ‘squisite right now.”  
  
“Why, thank you, Amelia. Is your Daddy awake?”  
  
“He’s under the covers looking at his pemis.”  
  
“I am not,” you insisted, wondering why all your days had to start like this.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_rubber ducky, you’re the one_  
  
Amelia was singing to all of her water-proof animals when you went in the bathroom; they were all lined up on the edge of the bathtub, all facing the same direction (she was _your_ daughter after all), and she had a little, yellow boat in her hand, bobbing in and out of the water while she sang to it, “ _Lello sumarine, lello sumarine, we’re ‘upposed to live in a lello sumarine ‘cause it’s a lello sumarine.”_  
  
“We have to wash your hair, Miss Priss.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause the gingerbed gotted in my hair.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So let’s get all these animals in the water because they’re all going to get knocked over.”  
  
“Okay, Daddy, you do it,” she said.  
  
“Okay, ready?”  
  
The excitement on her face was about to make you crack up. “I say it ‘cause you’re ‘upposed you do it,” she instructed you.  
  
“Okay, say it.”  
  
She pointed her finger at the animals and demanded, “Ok-ay, amnimals. Ready. Set. WET!” And you pushed them all in the water to the sound of your daughter’s hysterical laughter. But then she realized that one of them hadn’t made the jump. “Uh oh, Daddy. He’s still up there.”  
  
You picked up the pig at the far end of the row and asked him, “Mr. Pig, why didn’t you jump in the water?” And then you put the pig to your ear to listen to his answer, nodding your head and furrowing your brow as he told you why, “Hmm, yes, I see, hmm, very interesting.”  
  
“What’d he say, Daddy? What’d he say?” she asked, up on her knees at that point, dying to hear the answer.  
  
“He said he’s a chicken.”  
  
“No, he’s not!” she said, splashing in the water. “HE’S A PIG!”  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_this is the life of illusion_  
  
_8:06 a.m. Thursday, April 7, 2011_  
  
According to Daniel, he’d been an early riser all his life, so when you got to his place that Thursday and stepped inside with Amelia right on your heels, you were a bit surprised to see the interior so dark at that hour of the morning. Amelia followed you inside, and then immediately took her rightful place in front of you, her shoes tap-tap-tapping on Daniel’s hardwood floors as she made her way toward the living room, unfettered and unafraid of the darkness she was approaching. And when both of you got there, she ran right in, genuinely thrilled to see the sleeping giants in front her, “Mommy, _look._ ” But your reaction was of a much different sort, one might call it dread, perhaps a bit of a maternal instinct kicking in as you played a quick game of gay _Duck Duck Goose_ in your head: _Brian, Justin, Zeek…top, bottom, top._ Your eyes scanned again, very quickly, making sure and inhaling a huge sigh of relief when you realized that Daniel wasn’t down there: _top, bottom, top, top? No. Thank god._  
  
Because a solace orgy you might be able to handle.  
  
But a grief-induced gang bang?  
  
No fucking way.  
  
“Come on, ‘Melia,” you whispered, more harshly than you meant to.  
  
“But it’s Brime Kinney,” she objected (mimicking your tone), but then your presence began to wake Zeek, and he grunted and rolled over on the sofa, and Amelia froze in the middle of the floor, terrified of the shirtless giant, her bottom lip quivering like a Jell-O mold. You had to pick her up to get her out of there, and she clung to you like a baby monkey as you climbed the stairs to the second floor.  
  
……  
  
Daniel’s bedroom door was cracked, and he heard you coming down the hall, instructing you to come in before you even knocked. Amelia pushed the door open and ran inside—Daniel’s ragged appearance not even registering with her and she used the foot board to climb onto his bed, walked across the bedspread, and sat on his lap. His arms were out; he was waiting for her, “Good morning, Amelia.”  
  
“Dr. Car-ride, you know what?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Brime Kinney is ‘sleep on the floor ‘cause…’cause I knowed that.”  
  
“I know. He’s very tired.”  
  
“Yeah, he’s so ‘zausted.”  
  
“He is.”  
  
“What the hell, Daniel?” you asked, “Or do I not want to know?”  
  
“Or are you just jealous because you weren’t here?” he countered.  
  
_Oh, thank god. He’s making jokes. Nothing happened._  
  
And then you really looked at him: his hair sticking up everywhere, his pajama shirt not matching his pajama bottoms… It was April, and he was dressed like it was mid-January. He looked like a transvestite version of the Statue of Liberty—only shorter, with glasses…  
  
_give me your tired, your poor,  
your homosexual artists yearning to bend over…_  
  
“Have you even slept?” you asked.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Yeah, Dr. Car-ride, ‘cause…you knowed what the hell.”  
  
"’Melia,” you scolded her, “Go play in the studio.”  
  
“No.”  
  
"’Melia.”  
  
And so your young daughter surrendered (ostensibly) to your wishes, climbing off of Daniel and sliding off of his bed on her stomach, and then sulking down the hall to the studio, reminding you, “I’m ‘upposed to play with Dr. Car-ride right now, Mommy, ‘cause I’m ‘upposed to.”  
  
“I’ll play with you in a few minutes, Amelia. I promise,” he called to her.  
  
“Yeah, I knowed that,” she called back, clearly not believing him, clearly hurt, jilted, scarred for life.  
  
……  
  
And because your daughter is you with even less inhibitions (a genetic abnormality, no doubt), she had absolutely no intention of obeying you; your punishment for denying her her rightful scheduled activity was to begin henceforth.  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_what are we doing here?_  
  
When you opened your eyes, there was a little, unblinking pipsqueak staring at you, holding your t-shirt in her hands. You must’ve gotten hot in the middle of the night (morning-whatever) and taken it off. You said a quick prayer and looked down; your pants were on. _Whew_.  
  
“Hi, Squirt.”  
  
She said nothing, just stared at you, like a catatonic member of the Lollipop Legislature.  
  
“Can I have my shirt, please?”  
  
And still nothing, so you smiled and reached for it, tugging it out of her arms, but you pulled too hard and she was holding it really tight, so when you finally got it, she fell backwards on her butt, right on top of Justin. It scared him, woke him up, made him cough, and made her cry. He sat up, totally confused, but as if he was used to waking up in strange places with strange people, made a quick assessment, and was completely on board with you when you looked at him and said, “Make her be quiet.”  
  
“Shh, ‘Melia, it’s okay,” he told her, pulling her into his lap.  
  
She cried on his shoulder, glaring at you harder than a pink diamond, and she was already doing that thing that little girls do when they cry, “Sc-uh-ar-y Z, mo-uh-nst-uh-er.”  
  
“Zeek’s not a monster, Amelia. He’s just big. He’s not going to hurt you.” She cried louder, like it was her finale or something as New York’s finest Miniature Drama Queen. “Shh. Brian is tall, and you don’t think he’s a monster.”  
  
She stopped, turned her head and looked at the man she was really interested in. “Yeah, I know-uh-ed that.” And then she sniffed and laid against Justin until her body stopped heaving, until it caught up with the decision her mind had just made. And you were laughing (to yourself, of course) because, well, of the three of you, Kinney was the resident monster. But little girls, what do they know?  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_there you see her  
sitting there across the way _  
  
It was her little red shoes.  
  
Her little red shoes. The first thing you remember seeing when you opened your eyes that morning. She was sitting on your chest, bouncing up and down to some obnoxious Disney song, her little red shoes banging against your torso. You tried to get her attention, to say her name, _Amelia_ , but all that came out was, “Aah.”  
  
But it was enough. She heard you and turned, crawling up your chest to your face to inform you, “You’re ‘upposed to move so I can watch my movie, Brime Kinney.”  
  
_Oh._  
  
That’s where you were.  
  
Lying on the floor.  
  
In the good doctor’s _living_ room.  
  
Feeling dead.  
  
Your eyes blurred and re-focused. So much white and that obnoxious music—you thought maybe you were at a White Party of Clubbing Past. Such a fucking headache, but it was all making sense until her little red shoes. You’d seen some pretty tiny fairies at White Parties, but none that small.  
  
“You’re ‘upposed to move, Brime Kinney,” she repeated.  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Okay,” she said, “What the hell.”  
  
_My sentiments exactly._  
  
She resumed her place on your chest, swaying to some dancing crab you wanted to kick the ever-loving shit out of.  
  
And then you heard a male voice. You turned your head to listen, anything to distract yourself from the wad of gauze you felt you were choking on. The voice was coming from the kitchen…  
  
Justin’s?  
  
“ _No, they’re still here.”_  
  
No.  
  
“ _I didn’t either. Sarah’s taking them shopping.”_  
  
It wasn’t until that moment that you realized how similar Daniel’s voice was to Justin’s—the tone, the cadence. How they can both be soft spoken.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
_“Oh, it’s going to take a lot more than that…because…because he was on the phone at six a.m. this morning having my chair replaced, whole thing delivered before noon today.  
  
“I did.  
  
……  
  
“That’s exactly what I said. Almost word for word.”_  
  
When they want to be.  
  
……  
  
Amelia clapped. The song was over.  
  
The kitchen door swung open for a brief second; the doctor, he was checking on one of you. You shut your eyes until it closed again; Daniel’s voice once again buffered by the door.  
  
_“It’s not going to matter, Jon. He’s like blond steel—  
  
“Oh would you please get your mind out of the gutter.”_  
  
And then there was silence, save the occasion grunt of agreement from the good doctor, a ‘yeah,’ right,’ or ‘I know’ thrown in every few seconds. And then finally, he spoke,  
  
_”I wish I was straight enough to make a sports analogy here, but I know what you’re saying. You’re right. You’re exactly right. If you can’t get Mohamed to the mountain, then you bring the mountain to Mohamed.  
  
……  
  
“I don’t know.  
  
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”_  
  
And then Daniel’s conversation was over, and he walked out of the kitchen, through the living room (his shoes passing right by your head), into his office where he closed the door. You took the opportunity to glean some information from the barnacle attached to you, finally finding your voice, “Amelia, where’s Justin?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Justin.  
  
Your lover, your friend, your partner…your personal assistant?  
  
He finessed your exit from Daniel’s…  
  
He heard your footsteps on the stairs and was already bidding Harper farewell, smiling at her and at you at the same time. You backed down the stairs because he was coming towards you, walking backwards as well. And then you stood there, watching as he walked into Daniel’s office—noticing that he didn’t bother to knock, _”Daniel, we’re leaving,”_ and that Daniel didn’t bother to come out and say good-bye--and the only part of your departure that didn’t go according to his plan was Amelia jumping up and running past him on his way back to you, “Are you leaving, Brime Kinney?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m gonna go shopping,” she said, sighing as if it was a burden she couldn’t bear.  
  
“Ordinarily, I’d be envious,” you told her.  
  
“Me, too,” she told you, and you tried to really look at her then, to study her, because sometimes you couldn’t tell if she understood what was coming out of her mouth or not.  
  
“We’ll see you later, Amelia,” Justin told her as you followed him outside, waving good-bye to her as she stood in the foyer, all grown up in her little red shoes. It’s a moment in your life that you’ll never forget because something had begun to tilt again. You felt like pulling away from Justin, from whatever you were going to have to face; you felt like you were more like her than him—over burdened, over-dressed. And you felt like she knew that, too. She didn’t want to tell you good-bye, but she was. She was facing it head on.  
  
And she was staring at you, making you feel like she had some perverse new respect for you, like she knew that her tantrums coudn't hold a candle to yours.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_like a watercolor in the rain_  
  
Justin flagged a cab and the two of you got inside, riding in silence back to the hotel. The lobby was fairly busy that Thursday morning, but you didn’t stop to get a newspaper. Back in your suite, you stepped into the bathroom to brush your teeth, something you’d been dying to do for the last hour. Justin walked in behind you, started the shower, stripped and stepped under the water.  
  
You picked his clothes up off the floor and put them in the bedroom, put your wallet and watch on the dresser, and then joined him under the spray. Your body ached all over, the warm water was more than necessary; your eyes closed as it ran down your face. When you opened them to find the shampoo, Justin was no longer facing you; he was facing the wall instead, less than a foot in front of you, waiting. When he felt you behind him, he leaned forward, touching the wall as you wrapped your arms around him. His head was down; you rested your chin on his shoulder, his hands folding over yours as the water ran. It warmed you; you warmed him.  
  
The way it should be.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“What did I do?” you asked him eventually, not really wanting to hear the answer.  
  
“You had too much to drink.”  
  
……  
  
“And?”  
  
“It was my fault.”  
  
“Answer my question,” you told him.  
  
……  
  
“You left here--pissed at me--got drunk, went to Daniel’s, made an ass out of yourself, any of this ringing a bell?”  
  
……  
  
“Yeah.” There were so many bells going off in your head it might as well have been high noon in the town square. “I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Like I care about that, Brian.”  
  
……  
  
And then there was that disconnect again. That time it was the edge in his voice clashing with the compliance of his body. _This is marriage,_ you thought. _Irreconcilable differences. As long as we’re trying to reconcile them, then everything’s okay?_  
  
You should’ve gone to college for this, a degree in Matrimonial Relations. Advertising was a goddamn cake walk compared to this.  
  
And then it dawned on you. One o’clock in the town square. One big bell ringing once very loudly.  
  
Dr. Fric and Dr. Frac—Justin’s shrinky friends—they were the fucking geniuses in all of this. They were the ones cashing in the marital masses. You decided then and there that when you got back to Pittsburgh, you were going to start cold calling psychiatric practices.  
  
Some of their hard earned money was going to be yours.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_I'm a little untrusting when I think that the truth is gonna hurt ya_  
  
For once Brian’s memory wasn’t in tact, and you were relieved. It gave you the leeway you were counting on, the leeway to turn the clock back…  
  
_’Was there something funny about what I said?’  
  
’No, there’s something funny about you thinking that I would ever not want to fuck you.’_ …  
  
……  
  
“Do you feel like shit?” you asked Brian after you’d both gotten out of the shower; he was lying on his back on your unmade bed, his hair still wet; you were standing beside it. He turned and looked at you like your question confused him. “I mean physically.”  
  
“I’ve felt better,” he said and then resumed his study of the ceiling, smoking a cigarette in that thoughtful way you’ve seen him do a million times.  
  
“Are you hungry?” you asked with your hand on the phone.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you need anything?”  
  
“For you to stop playing twenty questions and get your ass in bed.”  
  
You turned the small lamp off next to your headboard and lay down beside him. He handed you his cigarette so you could finish it. You took a couple of drags and put it out. And then the clock that you’d so skillfully turned back…  
  
Well…  
  
It stopped.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
But Brian being Brian tried to help you; your struggles always something that he couldn’t tolerate for very long, “You still want me to go back today?”  
  
“No,” you said, but for some reason, it came out, “ _No,”_ -the way you say it to your mother when you’re thirteen and she asks you for the fifth time in five minutes if you’ve cleaned your room yet.  
  
“Do you need some alone time while you have your period?” he asked you.  
  
(These arguments the two of you have while both of you stare at the ceiling … _Jesus._ ) “Brian, what the fuck is your problem?”  
  
“I’m trying to get you to tell me what my problem is.”  
  
“You need me to tell you what your problem is?”  
  
“Apparently, Justin, because I obviously don’t know.”  
  
……  
  
Silence.  
  
……  
  
He was giving you a rare opportunity, the freedom to say anything you wanted, and all you could picture was a sketch in your grandfather’s office, a picture you used to copy while he watched football or baseball or whatever and then show him during the commercials. Every year, you got better and better, eventually you could draw it from memory:  


 

  
  
And your grandfather would always tell you, “It’s not just a picture, Justin. It’s a lesson, a golden rule: Speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil.”  
  
And you’d always say, “Yeah, I know, Grandpa, but don’t you think I’m getting really good?”  
  
“Yeah, you’re really good, but I don’t know if they have any jobs at the zoo for little boys who want to draw monkeys.”  
  
“They could pay me in peanuts,” you’d say, playing along.  
  
“Then what would they feed the elephants?"  
  
And then you got hurt and when your mother would finally let you talk to your grandparents on the phone, let you talk to anybody about what had happened to you, for that matter, it was the first thing he asked you, “You know, those monkeys have been asking about you. They want to know when you’re coming back to draw them again. They miss you.”  
  
”I can’t, Grandpa. I can’t draw them anymore.”  
  
“Okay, hold on a minute.” He was gone for a few seconds, and then he came back to the phone, ”Well, I asked them about that, and they said they won’t hear, see, or tell of it ‘cause that’s just unacceptable for them. You know how those monkeys are.”  
  
“Grandpa, I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I. You know I can’t argue with those monkeys. They don’t listen.”  
  
“Grandpa.”  
  
“Come to think of it, they’re as stubborn as you are.”  
  
So he told you that when you came back, you could try to draw them, and if your hand wouldn’t work, he’d teach you how to draw with your feet because he’d seen a monkey do that once, and if a monkey could do it, well, then, you could, too. And you laughed, really laughed, for the first time since you’d gotten hurt and when you did, he said it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.  
  
……  
  
But back to the silence.  
  
Back to you realizing that it wasn’t a rare opportunity that Brian was giving you because Brian had given you more opportunities of the years than you could even count. Some of them you’d taken him up on and others…  
  
……  
  
Others you weren’t ready for.  
  
……  
  
You still had nothing but those fucking monkeys in your head, so you thought you’d just confess that to him, admit that you were sorry, that you were useless and you didn’t really know why, so you turned to look at him, and he was right there—literally-- _right there._ He’d moved during your quandary, right next to you, lying on his side, his head propped on his hand, almost a smile on his face.  
  
Almost.  
  
The minute he started to speak, just hearing the breath he took before he began, that’s when you could feel it, your face beginning to flood, but his voice was so calm, so unassuming, his hand holding yours on your chest, “What’s got you so worked up that you can’t talk to me about it?”  
  
And you lay there, just staring at him, hoping like hell that he could read your mind because your throat had closed, clutched in a python’s grip. He moved a little closer, wiping your tears with the back of his hand, ignoring the fact that they were immediately replenished with new ones. The futility didn’t seem to bother him at all.  
  
“Is this about Alan?” he asked you, his face searching yours for an answer.  
  
And the thought of that, of the real reason you were came here, well, that broke the proverbial dam.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_when I needed sunshine, I got rain_  
  
It became clear to you then when Justin rolled toward you, folding himself into your arms, that something had overtaken him, something more powerful than you or him, something immune to any weapons in your arsenal, so you stopped trying to fight it or understand it and just held him while it marched through his body, conquering him, battle by battle. It made you feel sick, helpless, the way you used to feel when he’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming all those years ago and nothing you could say mattered at all. Your only choice back then was to weather the storm, and you knew the exact same thing was happening again, the visibility just as shitty.  
  
The second night after he’d come home two months ago, you’d felt this same sensation when you tried to calm him down in his studio after he’d single handedly swiped that mural out of your office and thrown a paint can at you. His body felt exactly the same again—weird—the weight of it coming toward you willingly while some force beneath his skin seemed determined to push you away.  
  
But that morning in New York, you surrendered to it instead, wrestling with the sheets until you got them over both of you, holding him against you while something inside him rattled the ever-loving fuck out of him, shutters banging against a haunted house.  
  
_Just come out, you fucking chicken shit demon,_ you thought. _Show yourself, and I’ll beat you so far into the ground, you’ll never find your way back out._  
  
And your options were limited this time; you couldn’t whisk him away to an all-expense paid vacation to help both of you forget about all of this because he had to be here. And if he had to be here, then you had to be here because there was no way you were leaving now, not when you were watching him suffer like this.  
  
……  
  
When it finally began to slow down, when he was gaining control again, he told you (or rather, your collarbone) that he was sorry.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“No, I mean I’m sorry I told you to go home.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“It’s not okay. I hurt you, and I was trying not to hurt you—"  
  
“Justin, I think that’s the least of our problems right now. It’s okay.”  
  
“I’m still sorry.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
……  
  
“You don’t even believe me, do you?”  
  
“Of course, I believe you,” you told him. You’ve always believed that he believes every single word that ever comes out of his mouth.  
  
“Because I’m serious,” he said, his hands on your face.  
  
And then he kissed you.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_and every stop is neatly planned  
for a poet and a one man band_  
  
Your life has always been about control—having it, being in it, gaining it, keeping it, flexing it. At times, it’s been the only ally you’d recognize in a fight that would go down to the wire. And when Justin got hurt that night, you learned a painful and misunderstood lesson about control, thinking that you’d let go a little and look what the hell happened. So when he left for New York, you were ready. You stayed busy—making deals, making friends, making money---laying the groundwork for the hope you stored in the castles of your imagination. And you’d been very smart about it because you weren’t just building an empire, you were building relationships, letting the professional bleed into the personal just enough to ensure that if you’d jinxed yourself, if for some odd reason he didn’t come back, you could pretend you hardly noticed what with all of this hubbub going on around you—hugs, kisses, smiles and a guaranteed seat at everyone’s table. No one executes a plan—or an insurance policy--more brilliantly than you do. You’d done exactly what was expected of Liberty Avenue’s most infamous top; you’d expertly, fashionably, and ever-so-completely covered your ass.  
  
And again you achieved success, hit the mark—well, almost, just a tiny fraction off—and only because you forgot that anyone who works that hard, anyone who climbs that high that fast to get to the top--well, it’s inevitable; even Lance Armstrong’s body aches at the end of a race, even he has to stop and catch his breath.  
  
Even when he wins.  
  
And that’s where you were when Justin kissed you that morning, emotionally out of breath—a little hollow and not exactly sure why, remembering that you felt that way the night before and knew that whatever response you chose that time had led to disaster, so you figured you better listen to him this time, even if he wasn’t talking because he was (as he’d reminded at every opportunity he’s ever had since the night you met him) much better at this than you were.  
  
So…  
  
He kissed you.  
  
Something that he’s done thousands of times since the day you met him, and so, of course, if felt familiar, but not because it was one of those thousand. It was one of those other ones; it was a kiss flavored with…  
  
…pity?  
  
No, more like sympathy.  
  
Felt a lot like the way he kisses you before he walks out the door.  
  
So out of some kind of primal instinct to protect what was rightfully yours, what you’d worked so hard for, you sort of grabbed him.  
  
It was a defensive move on your part, but he took it as an overture—an invitation--and kissed you harder and the next thing you knew, he’d pulled you on top of him—he’s a hell of a lot stronger than he looks—and you were quickly on your way to fucking the shit out of him. And there were arms and legs flying everywhere and a pillow hit a lampshade and the harder you fucked him the harder he wanted it, and by that time, you were so fucking confused that you figured, _fuck it_ , and just folded him in half like he was book you just finished reading—a really good book—and pounded his ass so hard that he could only exhale and every time he did, your name came out in this hot, visceral puff of air by your ear, _"Brian,"_ and he said it all scratchy like it was killing him just to say it, and he came before you did—no surprise there—and when he did, his fingers that had been pulling your hair relaxed for a few seconds, and your name sounded more like a moan and less like a threat, and you stopped thrusting for a moment in some kind of salute to his orgasm and then you told him that you loved him.  
  
And he smiled.  
  
……  
  
And then a reintroduction of sorts--a kiss--softer, sweeter, and disguised. “ _Come,”_ he said, pushing the word past his lips as if it’d been born inside him, a purring, insistent command that meant you were fucking him again, and that’s when you felt something snap inside you like a rubber band. Something that snatched the reigns of that fuck away from you…  
  
Your mind and your body; irreconcilable differences.  
  
A trial separation.  
  
You heard your own voice in the background, _“I’m hurting you?”_  
  
And then his, _“No, god, no.”_  
  
……  
  
It was ludicrous; the fuck was getting faster, harder, the back-and-forth of your hips resembling the last throes of a child’s wind-up toy that’s been tortured to death, oblivious to your emotional rhetoric.  
  
_"Sure?"_  
  
_“Sure, yes, I’m sure… Jesus. God, fuck me.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You looked down at your hands, your fingers wrapped around his thighs, digging in as you argued with this thing inside you, wondering if you let it out, if you’d ever feel it again.  
  
And he was gone; you saw it right before you covered him, wanting to be all over him when you came, feeling like nothing could get you close enough; his eyes were unfocused; he was inside himself where you desperately needed to be; your entire stash of free will spent trying to get there.  
  
“Mother fucking Christ,” and you were propelled back into the moment and it was over, your body in a heap on top of his, panting and wet.  
  
You lay there fused together, his body softening underneath yours as he held you, as he told you, “Sometimes you make me feel like I’m seventeen again.”  
  
……  
  
“Sometimes you make me wish I was twenty-eight.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Twenty- _nine._ ”  
  
“Okay, twenty- _nine_ ,” you conceded.  
  
……  
  
“Keep fucking me like that, though, and you can be twenty-one for all I care,” he whispered in your ear.  
  
……  
  
“Trust me,” you told him, “I’d have to be.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
When you found the will to move again, you rested above him on your elbows, brushing his hair out of his face, “You okay?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question that time; you really needed to know.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, in a way that meant, _Eventually._  
  
You smiled at him and his hand appeared from somewhere, his fingers wrapping around yours, keeping your hand pressed to his face, closing his eyes like he was so tired, like he needed something so simple—just your hand on his face—to be able to finally relax. Your thumb followed his smile and because his eyes were closed, he didn’t realize that you were about to kiss him when he was about to speak.  
  
He opened his eyes for a second and laughed as you pulled back a little. “What were you trying to say?” you asked.  
  
“I said, ‘I love you.’”  
  
……  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_I imagine the colors would all run together_  
  
Sometimes it doesn’t really start until it’s over, sort of like the rough drafts that litter your studio before you settle on the final version of a sketch; sometimes a fuck--and especially that one--is a heart-storming session, an emotional exercise to lay everything on the table. And Brian was really with you at that moment—body and soul--and inside you again as you were lying on your side studying his hand for purely selfish (artistic) reasons as it wrapped around your waist, slid down your stomach, and coiled around your thigh, the tips of his fingers disappearing between your legs, so you let your head fall into the pillow you were sharing because you wanted to concentrate on his lips, the sensation as they skated along your shoulders. Because his lips can do that, you see, they can skate and whisper at the same time, telling you things already know, “You’re exhausted.”  
  
“I don’t want you to stop,” you told him, something that he undoubtedly knew as well.  
  
He squeezed your thigh in some sort of agreement, and then his mouth was behind your ear and you played a game with yourself, trying to predict where it’d go next until you realized that prediction had turned into anticipation a long time ago because you knew where he was going and what he was going to do anytime the two of you were horizontal; you’d just forgotten that your predilection for anticipating Brian’s moves didn’t always carry over equally to the rest of your lives. If only the synchronicity that lubricated your physical relationship could sense its own imbalance, travel along some conduit to where it was needed the most…  
  
And then you felt Brian’s finger under your chin, tilting your head back, turning it in his direction, and when he kissed you it was tepid at first, like he was making sure it was the you he knew, and he didn’t rush the moment, just kept his palm on your face so you couldn’t turn away, so he could take his time; and at some point during that kiss the loop was complete—after play had become foreplay again--and you closed your eyes because Brian’s hands felt like feather-soft, familiar paintbrushes on your body and when your eyes were closed, you could see the colors bleeding onto the canvas of your skin—so quiet and so damn deep.  
  
Forever stained.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And he was going to fuck you again, eventually; you knew he was; and you were on your side again, looking down at his hand on your hip, listening to him breathe over your shoulder, and you put your hand on top of his and watched it as you made it slide—very slowly, glued to your skin—down your stomach and even lower, and he moaned behind your ear, his thigh nudging yours a little, negotiating with you for a little more control.  
  
Just a little.  
  
No pressure, no rush.  
  
……  
  
“You’re so quiet,” he whispered, kissing the side of your face.  
  
“I guess I don’t really feel like talking,” you said, even though you knew that wasn’t what he meant; he meant that you weren’t responding to him like you usually did, that he could feel how much you needed him, how much you wanted him, he just couldn’t hear it.  
  
“S'okay,” he said, and he meant it.  
  
……  
  
You were responding to him—just not the way he was used to; Your response was beginning to unfold inside of you—finally…  
  
The first time you drew Brian—asleep on his bed, you drew him really fast because you didn’t know when he was going to wake up and when or if you were ever going to see him again, and you had this awful urgency inside you to get him down on paper so you’d never forget him. But the more time you spent with him, the more he invited you into his world and his bed, you didn’t need to worry about that anymore because you had tangible memories of every part of him-from the way he felt when you touched him to the way he tasted when you did all those things he that he taught you to do. And as for the times when he would cast you away for a day or two, you had enough in your stockpile to conjure him up with a pencil or a paintbrush whenever you wanted. He probably never realized what a magician you were when he insisted on ignoring you, never knew how many times you designed him from scratch just so you could stare at his face.  
  
But when you awoke from your coma and were able to understand the basics of what had happened, you were faced with a challenge that, although you never told anyone, was far more terrifying to you than a tennis ball. You knew who Brian was, you knew how you felt about him, you knew that he was the most important person in the world to you, but beyond that, your tangible, sense memory of him had somehow become two-dimensional, useless like those five toy soldiers in a bag of a hundred that will never stand up no matter what you do.  
  
You couldn’t _feel_ him anymore.  
  
But time began to work its magic and as things began to get a little better for you, you were eventually able to re-incorporate all of the sensations of being with Brian, coloring the memories you’d stored away, the ones that had faded to black and white. Slowly, they were filling out again, all the way to the edges.  
  
But make no mistake, memories are like snowflakes—plentiful, yet fragile things--you can have so many and they can be so beautiful when the conditions are right, and from a distance they all look alike. But get up close, and every one of them is brand new. And as if you didn’t have enough to deal with when you woke up, the new images coming into focus…well, Brian was there again in all his glory, but he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t his body you were sketching behind your eyelids when you couldn’t sleep; it was his and yours; the two of you always caught up in that tangled dance. The memories were back, the same but different.  
  
And again, that awful urgency returned because what you sensed, what you felt, wasn’t what you had—not yet—not exactly—and the need to merge the reality and the ‘fantasy’ felt like a boulder chasing you down a hill. And how do you tell someone whom you fear may leave you at any moment that you’re overcome with something so weird that you need reassurance; how do you explain to him that you’re screaming at him about a week in the snow because, _‘Goddamnit Brian, that’s where the snowflakes are and maybe if it was just me and you for a week, I could fix this part and move on to fixing everything else. Do you have to reject me so hard every time?’_  
  
And how did a man who made and re-shot commercials for a living, really think that eating cheese and crackers on the floor was really about _eating_ the goddamn cheese and crackers and not about just sitting still for a few minutes? Why did he act like all forms of love were a foreign language to him when he had such an advanced appreciation of all of love’s functions?  
  
So you figured if you went by yourself, spent a week alone with the snowflakes, you could fix some of it yourself, and you did, but your progress was hindered every time you remembered how much easier it would’ve been if he’d been there with you.  
……  
  
So in moments like that one when you and Brian were on point and in sync, you were becoming more and more powerless to stop it and deal with anything else because it had become this hard-won prize, this unlikely victory, this strange parasitic high.  
  
……  
  
And in the stillness that followed, you realized that you’d moved Brian’s hand during your walk down memory lane, that you were holding it against your heart, and you were quiet for so long that Brian was taking over, fucking you while he held you, and when he wanted to come, pushing you on your stomach, and your eyes closed again as your whole body sunk into the sheets beneath his weight, his knee wedged between your thighs, keeping them apart, doing the work for both of you because he knew—just like he did when he came back from Chicago—that you were long gone. Wherever you’d disappeared to, you’d gone without him.  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_today is gonna be the day  
that they’re gonna throw it back to you_  
  
When you arrived at Daniel’s home around ten thirty that Thursday morning, it was empty of everyone but him for the first time in a long time. You knocked and let yourself in. He was expecting you.  
  
You knew where you’d find him—sitting in his office at his desk in front of his computer; and you knew what he’d be doing—browsing the web for a mail order, chocolate cheesecake that would arrive the second all of this grief and drama was over. You were right on both counts.  
  
“Dan, a hundred and eighty dollars is way too much to spend on a cheesecake,” you told him from the doorway, talking to the back of his head.  
  
“But they have free shipping,” he protested.  
  
“Did you call him yet?” you asked, changing the subject.  
  
He emptied his virtual shopping cart and spun around in his chair to face you, “I can’t do it.”  
  
“Why not?” You’d done your part earlier, now it was his turn.  
  
“You know why not.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_”but sit down in that chair right there,  
and let me show you how it's done”_  
  
You vanished from the doorway of his office and returned a few minutes later with a whiskey sour in your hand and an order as you handed it to him, “Assume the position.”  
  
He took it, giving up his chair for his couch, “Your bedside manner is both perverse and humiliating.”  
  
“Father Dick loves it,” you told him, sitting in his chair, ready to begin.  
  
“When do you think you’ll be ready to release him back into the wild?”  
  
You located a legal pad on Daniel’s desk and a pen and perched it on your lap as you faced him, your friend-face morphing quickly into your shrink-face, “I might not, might just keep this one.”  
  
Daniel smiled, so satisfied with himself; it was so rare, you let him have it. “I knew it. I knew this was going to happen.”  
  
“Drink up, please, so we can start.”  
  
“It’s unethical for you to force me to intoxicate myself before therapy.”  
  
“You’re useless unless you’re tipsy. It says so right here in your chart.” He flipped you off. “I’m ready when you are.”  
  
He got quiet and started drinking; your pen began to skate across the paper. You’re not a note-taking shrink, but it makes some of your patients more comfortable, makes them feel like you’re taking them more seriously—especially the pretend ones.  
  
“How much time do I have?” he asked you.  
  
You glanced at your watch, “Thirty minutes.”  
  
“That’s not fair.”  
  
“Daniel, we’re really playing beat the clock today.”  
  
“I know,” he sighed. “I know.”  
  
……  
  
Silence.  
  
……  
  
“So why didn’t you call Justin like you were supposed to?” you began. (Might as well get straight to the point.)  
  
He dodged it, “You shouldn’t have done what you did to him last night, upset him like you did.”  
  
“You didn’t call him because of something I did?”  
  
“You pushed him too hard.”  
  
“Did I break him?”  
  
He looked at you then, resting his glass on his chest; it was empty save the ice. “Don’t be a smart ass about this.”  
  
“I had to push him. His unconscious is guarded by a smitten psychiatrist and a drunk, fire-breathing dragon.”  
  
“Don’t implicate me in this.”  
  
You laughed; he’s so utterly dense sometimes, “You were set up, Dan; albeit unintentionally, but don’t you see it? You were the perfect choice, like those guards at Buckingham Palace, the ones that never respond no matter what you say or do to them, the ones that never stop doing their job. The minute you chose him, he chose you.”  
  
“Harper chose him; he was paying it forward,” he said quietly.  
  
“Do you remember the day he moved in here, and we met in that depressing bar you like, and you told me that you’d given in to him, said that she could come too—"  
  
“Because it’s the only way that he would come,” he said, his eyes fixating on his wall-to-wall bookcases.  
  
“Right.”  
  
“She took care of Alan, he took care of her, I took care of him.”  
  
“Which is why we have a fucking mess right now,” you told him. (Murder being quite the monkey wrench and all.)  
  
“The circle is broken,” he said, still staring at the wall.  
  
“That’s quite the colossal understatement, but yes.”  
  
He sat up and sat his glass on the small table between you, letting the condensation soak through the cover of an old issue of _Psychology Today_ as he spoke, “He slept with me—"  
  
“Because he needed you.”  
  
“Jesus, he didn’t have to do that. Why would he think he had to do that?” And then you could tell that he was starting to get upset, and that was going to have to wait. You’d knocked the first wall down, but the rubble would have to be cleaned up later; there wasn’t time.  
  
You threw the legal pad back on his desk and leaned forward in your chair, facing him, “Daniel, listen to me. He bit off way more than he could chew with Harper. _Way_ more. And he couldn’t walk away. I mean, for god’s sake, look at what that kid had been through before he even got here. Look at the man he loves, at the context of that relationship. He needed you. I mean for all the times you moaned and groaned about how he didn’t, he really did, just not in the way you thought.”  
  
“God, I’m a fucking idiot.”  
  
“No, you just can’t see the forest for the trees, Dan. Just like everybody else.”  
  
“I have Chronic Intractable Myopia.”  
  
You laughed at him because you knew he was right and because you knew what he was doing—only your best friend, the esteemed Dr. Daniel Cartwright, could make himself feel better by diagnosing himself with an incurable disease…that he made up.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_and he was in a bind  
'cause he was way behind  
and was willin' to make a deal _  
  
Ten minutes later, Daniel had made the call to Justin like he’d promised, and the two of you were in a taxi headed for Father Dick’s office otherwise known as St. Agnes Cathedral. If your plans went off correctly, you, Dr. Jonathon Massey, by the power vested in you by the New York State Board of Medicine and perhaps some divine inspiration sucked from Father Richard Donnelly during your carnal confessions, were going to be presiding over a loosely-constructed miracle of your own design. The first phase was complete, thanks to Jim Beam and a couple of decades in private practice, and now you had to make like Father Dick and place your faith in a higher power and trust that everything else was going to go as planned.  
  
When you arrived at the church, everything was on schedule. Nate and Sam were there working on the music, the acoustics, the slide show; Daniel joined them. Father Dick was there milling around doing whatever it is he does all day, and you took your place in the back of the church to wait for Justin and Brian.  
  
Easter was coming late that year, not until the twenty-fourth, but you didn’t care because if you’d calculated correctly, the religious experience you were manufacturing would be even more inspiring. Not one of those cheesy ones that ends up on a bookmark; no two sets of footprints merging into one for you. Oh no. No one was carrying anybody else in the scenario you’d concocted.  
  
When you were done stirring the proverbial pot, everyone was coming off the cross.  
  
For good.  
  
You thumbed through the bible you’d brought with you for inspiration—Father Dick’s favorite, dog-eared bedtime story--closed your eyes and said a little prayer.  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Live’s _Lightning Crashes_ , Paul Simon’s _Something So Right_ , .38 Special’s _Caught Up in You_ , Frankie Valli’s _Grease_ from the motion picture soundtrack of the same name twice, Samuel E. Wright’s _Kiss the Girl_ from Disney’s motion picture soundtrack _The Little Mermaid_ , Al Stewart’s _Year of the Cat_ , Matchbox Twenty’s _Push_ , Neil Diamond’s _I’m A Believer_ , Simon and Garfunkel’s _Homeward Bound_ , Kenny Roger’s _If I Were a Painting_ , Oasis’s _Wonderwall_ , and The Charlie Daniel’s Band _The Devil Went Down to Georgia_ twice.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , [](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_goddess**](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/) , [](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**amillionicons**](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/629753.html#)[**joelzbutterly**](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/629753.html#) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)


	40. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 37-Disciples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 2/11/07] This chapter took up 2 posts on LJ. It's posted here in full.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 37-DISCIPLES**

 

  
_But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect._  
\--1 Corinthians 15:10

  
  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_this little light of mine,  
I’m gonna let it shine_  
  
Most of the priests you know have these moving stories about the exact moment they knew they were going to be priests, how God came to them in the middle of the night in the form of a pressing urge to excrete holy water and informed them of their true calling, and, to be fair, you always wished you had one of these stories to share with everyone at priestly conventions, but, alas, you didn’t. You tried to make one up once, “Well, the priesthood…it runs in my family. Same old story: my grandfather was a priest; my father was a priest, and well, here I am.” But you got a bunch of very strange looks and then, finally, one of the priests leaned over and said, “That’s not really possible, what with the celibacy and all.” (You were in Georgia at the time, and your informant smelled like collard greens).  
  
“Just kidding,” you said by way of recovery, “Almost had you going, didn’t I?” But after that you were always the last one picked for gospel choir karaoke.  
  
It’s just that the truth was far less inspirational. You grew up Catholic, the oldest child with three younger sisters. You were the only boy, a good son, a chronic, habitual over-achiever by all accounts: crawling early, walking early, running away from your parents and into oncoming traffic _way_ too early. You went to church with your family, went to Sunday school in your little suit and tie and somehow became the church’s, and then the city’s, and the county’s, and then all of south Jersey’s pride and joy by memorizing more bible verses than anyone else and being able to blurt them out anywhere at a moment’s notice.  
  
They put you in a booth at the state fair…when you were seven:  
  
_Stump Little Richie and Win Eternal Salvation!_  
  
Okay—no--they got three tries to stump you, and if they did, then they won a stuffed baby Jesus.  
  
_Danger in the Manger, Ladies and Gentleman! Step Right Up!_  
  
The walls of your childhood bedroom were adorned with little gold trophies that oddly had nothing godly (an under-used rhyme; oh, if only you’d written the bible instead of just memorized it…) about them; they were simply engraved with your name-- _Richie Donnelly_ \--the date, and the number you’d recited at that particular setting. Your official record was one hundred and seventy six, but you could top two hundred when you were doing it in front of the mirror by yourself with your rosary beads.  
  
So, off the subject, but when the high school quarterback wins the homecoming game, he gets a scholarship to a great college to play football and he goes and makes everybody proud, right?  
  
So, back on the subject, when the Catholic kid who’s pretty good-looking and so smart that his parents fear he might be ‘a little bit savant’ graduates with a 4.0, no interest in girls ( _he was early for ever other milestone, maybe he’s just a little late for this one?_ ), and a head full of chapter and verse, he goes and becomes a priest and makes everybody proud, right?  
  
Because that’s what he’s supposed to do, right?  
  
Right?  
  
Well, hell, nobody stopped you.  
  
Not even Jesus.  
  
And you gave him three tries.  
  
Oh well, you thought. It’s a living. Wasn’t like God was a hard guy to work for; the benefits were primo.  
  
*********************

 

  
_How long will mockers delight in mockery  
and fools hate knowledge? _  
\--Proverbs 1:22

  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_my sweet Lord_  
  
The only difference between psychiatry and the priesthood is several tax brackets and ego. That’s what you’d decided after spending several Sundays watching Father Dick at work. His parishioners put as much of their faith in him as your patients did in you, and he seemed to feel just as obligated to ease their suffering. It was a subject that always seemed to wind its way into your conversations with him from your very first date to early that morning when you’d come home from Daniel’s to find him reading in bed, waiting for you, unable to sleep until you debriefed him on what he’d missed. It was the thing about Father Dick that you found so endearing.  
  
Plus, he was just so…tall, dark, and…pious.  
  
You didn’t go into too much detail when explaining that you were going to be dropping by the church that day, and when he pressed you a little because you were being more mysterious than usual, you said, “Press a little harder…right there…no, wait…yeah, right there.”  
  
He stirred more milk into his coffee as the two of you sat in at your kitchen table and then looked up at you through his eyelashes in that smoldering, righteous way he does, “You’re an absolute moron, you know that?”  
  
“Jesus loved the morons,” you told him.  
  
“ _Mormons,_ ” he corrected you, “Mormons.”  
  
“Damn, why do I always screw that up?”  
  
“I’ll refer to you my earlier declaration.”  
  
Father Dick’s hands, the way they wrap around his coffee cup…they’re so pedestrian; there’s just something so _Habitat for Humanity_ about him…makes you want to pick up a nail gun and fasten him to your wall…like pop art…  
  
_Shake it off._  
  
“Sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t have a very high opinion of my moral character,” you said.  
  
He stood up, put his mug in your sink and you followed him, leaning against him when he turned around because you knew he was getting ready to leave. He was taller than you by exactly the right number of inches you’d always dreamed about, and before he kissed you, before his he-man fingers were stuck in your blond hair, he told you, “Sometimes I just want to use my rod and my staff to comfort you.”  
  
“I don’t have a problem with that.”  
  
He laughed, hugged you and warned you about playing Jesus that day, “Things didn’t turn out so well for him right away, Jon. You need to remember that, perhaps recalibrate your expectations.”  
  
“I know,” you told him, “Centuries and centuries before he could just kick back and ride around on dashboards. Blah, blah blah.” And after he kissed you good-bye, you told him, “And I hate it when you talk to me like that, when you get all serious. You remind me of my father.”  
  
“Who art in heaven?” And you were ready to fire back at him (because when isn’t your gun loaded?) when he turned around in the doorway, grabbed you, kissed you and said, “Be quiet. You’re so hot when your mouth’s shut.”  
  
“Mmm mmm mmmm, mmm, mmm. Mm. Mmm, mm,” you told him as he walked out the door.  
  
“That’s better. See if you can find some duct tape for later. Then we’ll _really_ have some fun.”  
  
“MMM, _MMM_ MM!”  
  
And he waved good-bye.  
  
*********************

   
_Then the Lord said, "If they do not believe you or pay attention to the first miraculous sign, they may believe the second.”_  
\--Exodus 4:8

  
*********************  
  
  
_one toke over the line, sweet Jesus_  
  
But that particular Thursday morning you were sitting in the back row of Father Dick’s church, in the very same pew you were sitting in the first time you saw him--the day you met him a few months prior. The circumstances had been rather strange…  
  
It was a freezing cold January day when you got a call from a colleague requesting a consult on a case at Mt. Sinai, a female college student on the psych ward who wasn’t sick enough to stay on the ward, but not quite stable enough to be mainstreamed back into the general population. You listened as the attending physician gave you the particulars—that she’d been taken to an exorcist at age twelve, her parents devout Christians who believed that everyone was born with a little of the devil in them, “Might as well get it out while she’s young,” as if it was a stain on a shirt, as if you could, ‘Shout it Out!’® She needed someone who would work with her outside of the psych ward, who would help her re-assimilate into life void of the internal terror she’d been dragging around. You were always the one who got these phone calls because you were known for your unique brand of shock therapy—the kind that didn’t plug into a wall. You were a bit of a maverick amongst your peers, but a very rich one, so in your profession, that essentially made you a genius. So you took the case, met the girl, and then started calling around the city, trying to find a Catholic church that would be amenable to helping you re-acclimate this girl, and most of them hung up on you. When you finally got Father Dick on the phone, he listened to everything you had to say, and then said, “Am I on the radio or something?”  
  
“No, I’m serious. I’m really a psychiatrist. Look me up. I’m legit.”  
  
“If I agree, do I win a million dollars?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
“Is that a yes or a no?” You were about to give up; this was ridiculous.  
  
“It’s a maybe.”  
  
“A maybe?”  
  
“Tell you what,” he said, “You come to church this Sunday—without the girl—and we’ll talk after my sermon. If I think you’re legit and/or you give me a million dollars, it’s a deal.”  
  
“There is no million dollars. Period.”  
  
“See you Sunday, Dr--?”  
  
“Massey. Jon Massey.”  
  
“See you Sunday, Trapper John. I’ll be the one in the robe.”  
  
And he hung up.  
  
No one had called you ‘Trapper John’ since you were twenty-five. And the fact that hearing your old nickname gave you an erection is really just immaterial at this juncture.  
  
So at that point, girl or no girl, you just had to see this guy, so you made Daniel go with you so you wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb—(instead it was just two sore thumbs, but who’s counting?)—and Dan spent the entire time writing, _he’s REALLY hot,_ all over his program and then, _do you think he’s NAKED under that thing?_ , and you looked down at your program and kept staring at his name, _Father Richard Donnelly_ , and started wondering what people called him, and then you knew what you were going to call him, and then you knew he had to be the right one to help you. Because that’s the way the Lord works, sometimes he just stops dicking around and gives you a sign…named Dick.  
  
*********************

  
_The carpenter measures with a line and makes an outline with a marker; he roughs it out with chisels and marks it with compasses. He shapes it in the form of man, of man in all his glory…_  
\--Isaiah 44:13

  
*********************  
  
  
_Jeremiah was a bullfrog  
was a good friend of mine_  
  
After Justin left to return to Western Pennsylvania Virginia, you made a concerted effort to keep Daniel busy, and since your lay-of-late had a standing obligation on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings, Daniel would often accompany you to Father Dick’s services because, quite frankly, they were more entertaining than most Broadway shows. Like the Sunday when Dick’s sermon was going to focus on the prophet Jeremiah, and the choir was singing _Joy to the World_ and no one thought it the least bit odd that Three Dog Night’s lyrics couldn’t be found in their hymnal.  
  
Didn’t really matter…everybody knew them.  
  
And when the offering plates were being distributed throughout the congregation, no one found it distasteful when Father Dick encouraged them to open their wallets by announcing, “Come on, everybody. I bring you tithings of great joy!”  
  
“I don’t know what to make of him,” Daniel told you after one Sunday service, “I can’t decide if he’s brilliant or completely insane.”  
  
“Me neither,” you told him, “I keep thinking I’m going to see something about him on the _National Geographic_ channel, like maybe he’s the first human to be hatched in a Cuckoo bird’s nest.”  
  
“Oh how sad,” Daniel said with his sympathetic hand on his shoulder, “He’s a mutant Cuckoo bird; he can’t fly.”  
  
“I think that’s why he works for Jesus, so someday he’ll get some wings.”  
  
……  
  
The wind blew between you as you waited; it was early March. You tucked your head and zipped up your coat. It was taking longer than usual for Father Dick to reappear, perhaps he’d been held up by a chatty church member or was healing someone or something. You stuck your hands in your coat pockets to keep warm, and then you were talking again, filling the space between you, “I mean, last night after the service, he was working on a sermon in my office, so I left him alone—"  
  
“That was nice of you.”  
  
“But it drove me nuts because he was sitting in there on my loveseat in jeans and a flannel shirt with a pad on his lap—"  
  
“What’s it with you and the flannel lately?”  
  
“I don’t know. I hate flannel, absolutely _hate_ it, until he puts it on, and so he’s downstairs in my study, wearing flannel, working on a sermon about _Jesus_ and you wanna know what I’m doing?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m upstairs on my bed masturbating with the _Sears_ catalog.”  
  
“Oh, please. Everybody slums with the _Sears_ catalog when they can’t find something better,” Daniel told you, rolling his eyes.  
  
“No, stupid. I wasn’t looking at the underwear models. I was jacking off to electric screwdrivers.”  
  
“Wall mounted or portable?”  
  
“Thank you for mocking for trauma.”  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
“Been able to walk through a museum without fondling yourself yet?” you asked him.  
  
“Fuck y-- Oh, look, here comes your Homo Improvement.”  
  
Maybe he was your savior after all.  
  
*********************

  
_Oh Lord, I love the habitation of your house._  
\--Psalms 26:8

  
*********************  
  
  
_where does the answer lie?_  
  
Before you met Father Dick, your impression of organized religion, and Christianity in particular, was that it was just one never-ending book tour by the world’s most clandestine authors. You bought a copy of the bible once, a really nice expensive one, and left it open on your coffee table for a year waiting for God to autograph it. He didn’t. When you asked Father Dick why God never showed up, he looked at you, deeply concerned about your relationship with the Lord, and said, “Jon, God can’t come to someone’s house by himself. The world we live in today, terrorism and all that. He can’t take that kind of a risk.”  
  
“Good point. I didn’t think about that.”  
  
“That’s why you have to come to church.”  
  
“Because it’s a safe house?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“So if I bring my bible on Sunday, God will sign it?”  
  
“Absolutely, but only when you’re praying with your eyes closed and only with invisible ink.”  
  
Father Dick always has an answer for everything.  
  
……  
  
The acoustics in Father Dick’s church are impressive, and as you sat there that Thursday morning, you could hear Nate and Sam talking at the piano, Daniel and Richard conferring at the podium, and the occasional conversations of parishioners who happened by during the course of the day for reasons that parishioners do. But when Nate started to play—well, you’d heard plenty of music in that church before—but when he started to play—it was _Yesterday_ by The Beatles, you looked up from your scratch pad because your soul had awakened. The entire building was reverberating.  
  
Your eyes were fixed on Nate as he got familiar with the piano, as you thought about what this was going to be like when Sarah was accompanying him. Your phone rang, buzzing in your pocket, a necessary but unwelcome interruption.  
  
*********************

  
_In the time of Herod king of Judea there was a priest named Zechariah…_  
\--Luke 1:5

  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_he shoot Coca Cola_  
  
Stitch called you Thursday morning in a tizzy about all the loot Lewis had found when he’d tried to walk Alan’s route; there was panic in his voice as he explained to you that every time Lewis went back, there was more stuff than the time before. It took you a while to calm him down, to remember what it was like to deal with him and his very narrow perspective of the world and his hair-trigger nerves when everything didn’t go exactly right. You promised him you’d meet him at the usual place in about an hour; he’d have someone looking for you, someone who would start the game of telephone once you were spotted to inform Stitch that he should come up.  
  
In the meantime and per the instructions Jon had given you—because God forbid you start your day without someone bossing you around--you were smoking on Dan’s front steps when the delivery truck from _Contemporary Furniture.com_ stopped right in front of you. The driver practically sprung out of the truck, sauntering up to you with a clipboard and a very fake smile on his face, “You Daniel Cartwright?”  
  
“God, I hope not,” you said. He didn’t look very amused, rather like someone needed to sign off for his delivery in the next ten seconds or his head was going to pop off of his shoulders like a zit or something. “You were supposed to be here before noon,” you told him.  
  
“Running late,” he chirped. “Traffic, the city, you know.”  
  
“How many cups of coffee have you had, man?”  
  
“Way too many.”  
  
“No shit, man. No. Shit. Hang on one second for me. Just chill or something. You look like your brain’s about to explode.” You called Jon as you’d been instructed, “It’s here.”  
  
“ _Well, they’re not. Proceed with Plan B.”_  
  
“This is fun; I haven’t done all of this convert stuff since I was six.”  
  
“ _Covert.”_  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“ _Covert. Call me back if there’s a problem.”_  
  
When you hung up, the driver was still working his artificial smile. He’d stopped bouncing in his shoes, but you could tell he was forcing himself to hold still. “I need you to wait for the doctor,” you told him.  
  
“I can’t do that. I’m already late. I have other deliveries to make—"  
  
“Here’s something for your trouble.”  
  
He stared at the hundred dollar bill you gave him, then at you again, and then asked, “How long?”  
  
“Half an hour, probably not even that.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
“Here’s my cell number,” you told him. “If he’s not here in thirty minutes, call me. Otherwise, it’s been nice knowing you.”  
  
And then you were gone, the last twelve hours forgotten, your mind focused on Stitch and the other things you needed to take care of that day.  
  
*********************

   
_Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit._  
\--Matthew 28:19

  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_he’s got the whole world in his hands_  
  
By that Thursday morning, you’d known Jonathon and Daniel for about three months and the only people you knew who were more inseparable than those two were the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It certainly didn’t seem fair to you that you always had to be the Holy Ghost when the three of you hung out, but Jonathon promised you that one day he’d convince Daniel that he wasn’t God and you could have a turn. _Yeah, right_ , you thought, _when hell freezes over._  
  
With the exception of the reason you met Jon, the girl who needed (she thought) to be delivered from demons, the two of you stayed in your own vocational corners, your liaisons happening after hours for obvious reasons. But that Thursday morning, he was setting up shop in your office and being very tight lipped about it. But you were a man of faith, and your faith told you to believe in him and while you were at it, could you please get him a _Diet Coke_ from the drink machine, “Because I’d get it myself, but they’re going to be here any minute.”  
  
You really wanted to know what he was up to because whatever it was Daniel was in on it, too, because you can always tell with those two, so you told Jon, sitting in the pew in front of him, backwards, facing him as you handed him his soda, “You’re making me feel left out.”  
  
He was sketching on a steno pad in his lap, and he didn’t even look up, “Don’t pout; it makes me want to kiss you.”  
  
……  
  
“Fine, don’t tell me,” you told him, “Just be careful on that dashboard today; you are in New York City, after all.”  
  
*********************

 

  
_Then the Lord called Samuel. Samuel answered, "Here I am."_  
\--1 Samuel 3:4

  
*********************  
**NATE ROCKFORD’S POV**  
  
  
_hey,  
won’t ya play  
another somebody  
done somebody wrong song?_  
  
That Thursday morning, you were forging a nice relationship with Sam as the two of you sat at the piano going over music for the funeral, and when you saw Brian and Justin walking down the aisle of the church, you smiled and waived. In all the years you’d known Brian, you’d never seen him look so fatigued.  
  
And then Brian was moving away from Justin and Daniel, coming over to talk to you and it was nice because he was sitting beside you on the bench just like he did during his impromptu honeymoon.  
  
“You okay?” you asked him.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He didn’t look okay to you. “You sure? You look like you don’t feel well.”  
  
“I’m just tired,” he told you, and then he picked up the sheet music in front of you and started flipping through it, “Why’d you bring sheet music? You don’t need it.”  
  
“Lyrics. Sarah needs it sometimes. Just habit I guess.” You began to play _Yesterday_ again, and Brian sat your sheet music back in front of you and just watched you, and Sam came back over and you began to regale him with tales of Brian and Justin’s reception, and the three of you were laughing when Brian suddenly put his hand on top of yours to stop you from playing. You looked at him to see why he’d stopped you, but his eyes were fixed far across the sanctuary at Justin whose demeanor had done a complete one eighty since he’d walked in five minutes prior. Something was clearly amiss.  
  
“Excuse me for a minute,” Brian said, and Sam leaned on the piano as he walked away and asked you, “What’s going on?”  
  
You shrugged your shoulders, “I have no idea.”  
  
You thought it none of your business, so you started playing again, but you were watching out of the corner of your eye: the three of them talking, Justin becoming agitated and even more so when Brian walked over, and when Brian got there, Daniel walking away.  
  
And then Sam offering a running commentary, not as himself, but rather, as Howard Cosell: **“Ladies and Gentlemen…this is an awesome spectacle…”**  
  
“Cut that out,” you told him, elbowing him in the ribs, but he continued anyway.  
  
**“A sight to behold…a match for the ages…sparks flying…if you will…  
  
“between the often underestimated…  
  
“Justin Taylor and his rival…  
  
“the illustrious…Brime Kinney.”**  
  
“I didn’t know gay people fought like other married people,” you told him. “I mean, that’s cool. Fair is fair.”  
  
**“Who will be victorious? Will it go down to the wire? Who will be the…  
  
“last...  
  
“homosexual…  
  
“standing?”**  
  
“I”ll bet you drive your wife up a wall, Sam.”  
  
Justin had always struck you as quite a headstrong young man, but you hadn’t even seen he and Brian go head to head…so to speak.  
  
“Somebody’s not getting laid tonight,” Sam whispered to you.  
  
“Yeah, I know, but how do you know which one?"  
  
*********************

  
_There came a man who was sent from God; his name was John._  
\--John 1:6

  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_ready to go_  
  
Sometimes you forget how different a fifty-minute hour on a couch and the real world can be, and you were about to be fiercely reminded. Your plan for the day seemed to be written in that infamous invisible ink Father Dick raves about because what should have been the first act went from zero to sixty in about three seconds with Brian walking so damn fast down that church aisle and practically willing you out of your seat and into a cab. And when the cab door shut and the only sound was the obnoxious talk radio squawking from the front seat, you could practically hear the waves of emotion crashing against the man sitting beside you like it was high tide at the Hoover Dam. His hand was pressed flat on the seat next to him as if he were holding himself still, the bones of his hand a grounding round for the rest of him.  
  
A lesser doctor might have prescribed something at that moment.  
  
Maybe a force field.  
  
In pill form.  
  
For himself.  
  
You said nothing, just held on while the cabbie swerved through traffic, looking over at Brian every few seconds. He never moved; he just stared out the window as if he was too angry to blink.  
  
Upon arrival at Daniel’s, Brian paid the driver, signed for the chair from the happiest delivery man you’d ever seen, and then watched you as you unlocked Daniel’s front door. He was ready.  
  
He unboxed the chair in the foyer—quite handedly—and because the ottoman was shrink wrapped and sitting upside down on the chair, he relegated you to the top of the chair because the bottom was heavier, and well, that was a no brainer. (Your biggest muscle is between your ears, no shame in that.) And then you began, perhaps somewhat symbolically, to back up the stairs, step by step by step, and Brian’s head kept bobbing to the left and the right and the left and right like a metronome and finally you asked, “What are you doing?”  
  
“Counting how many steps you have left.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Two more.”  
  
And then you were both on the landing, turning the tight corner, and you were backing into Daniel’s bedroom and finally sitting the damn thing down. “That thing is seriously heavy,” you offered.  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“You want to cut this shrink wrap—" you were asking him, but he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the existing chair with a perplexed expression on his face.  
  
“This is the chair I ruined?” he asked you.  
  
“Not the chair, the ottoman.”  
  
So he stood over the ottoman for a few seconds, and then squatted down beside the ottoman for a few seconds, and then pointed to something on the ottoman, “This scuff mark? This black scuff mark? I did this?”  
  
You had to lean over to be sure; you hadn’t actually seen the damage, “Looks like it. I mean, I don’t think that was there before.”  
  
Brian stood up, his height something you had to keep getting used to, and sat in the ‘ruined’ chair to further observe the ‘ruined’ ottoman, “Justin replaced the entire piece because of a scuff mark?”  
  
“That’s my understanding,” you answered, hoisting yourself up to sit on the end of Daniel’s bed because he was obviously not interested in continuing with the chair swap at the moment and it never hurts to rest the body after physical exertion.  
  
……  
  
And then Brian stopped looking at you, staring out the window instead, and the room got eerily quiet, so quiet that when your stomach growled, you both laughed. “Sorry, I guess I’m hungry.”  
  
“Did Daniel ask him to replace the chair?” Brian asked you, his eyes on the window.  
  
“No. He has this cutting edge substance called ‘upholstery cleaner;’ comes in real handy when you have a two-year-old running wild in your house.”  
  
“I have a son; I well remember.”  
  
“You do? I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Yeah, he lives in Canada.”  
  
“You were married before?”  
  
He busted out laughing, “God, no. My friend, Lindsay, she’s gay; she wanted a child.”  
  
“Wow. Sorry about that; you sort of threw me for a loop there.”  
  
“No problem. I get that about once a year.”  
  
……  
  
And with that, Brian stood up and began unraveling the plastic on the new chair, so you helped him, and when the switch was made, the dishonorable chair was banished to the studio and Daniel’s bedroom was restored to its former untouched glory devoid of all cardboard and packing materials, all with the swipe of a MasterCard, a hundred dollars in cash, and a little bit of sweat.  
  
Brian thanked you for helping him and then followed you downstairs and back outside where the two of you stood on Daniel’s front steps and because things had started off a little differently than you planned, you were a little off kilter and relieved when he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one, which you took with no idea why because you hadn’t smoked one in forever.  
  
When you bum a cigarette off a guy, a friend, whatever, it’s not like you’re obligated to stand there and smoke it in his presence, but both of you seemed rather fixed where you were, except that you were sitting on Daniel’s steps and Brian was pacing, but he kept passing back and forth in front of you, which gave you time to think.  
  
Until he stopped.  
  
You’d been looking at his shoes the whole time anyway, back and forth, back and forth, and then you saw his cigarette shoot toward the ground, he was going to step on it, to put it out, but then he realized what he was standing on—  
  
……  
  
And he bent down to pick it up—the cigarette—looking at it like he didn’t know what to do with it, his body posturing the way a small child’s does when he stops to examine a bug on a summer sidewalk and then he looked up at you, the same way he’d looked out the window upstairs, only this time from the other side—the outside trying to look in…  
  
……  
  
……  
  
So you leaned to your left, extending your hand through the bars of Daniel’s railing, and looked at him, “Give it to me. I’ll take it.”  
  
But you had to take the butt out of his fingers—practically, pry it—and extinguish both of them right where you were on Daniel’s steps, and he was still there hovering over that spot like he’d just been the last kid down in a game of freeze tag. And then his eyes moved to his fingers as if he wasn’t expecting to see them empty and then to your face as if he wasn’t expecting to see you there…  
  
and then they rolled…  
  
back into his head…  
  
and he rolled…  
  
or rather tipped…  
  
back onto the sidewalk...  
  
and you jumped up, “Shit!,” and ran behind him just in time to place your foot in the exact spot where his head would’ve smacked the cement.  
  
*********************

 

  
_Babylon will suddenly fall and be broken.  
Wail over her!  
Get balm for her pain;  
perhaps she can be healed. _  
\--Jeremiah 51:8

  
*********************  
  
  
_if I fall along the way,  
pick me up and dust me off_  
  
You were taking his pulse when he came to and there was a yellow taxi cab waiting at the curb with its door open; the taxi driver, he’d seen you jump, apparently, seen you break Brian’s fall. He was out for less than two minutes, and when he began to wake up, he squeezed your hand hard, his eyes barely open, “Sunshine.”  
  
“Nope, partly cloudy, maybe later,” you said as he groaned, and then you told him, “You fainted, Brian; Justin’s at the church, remember?”  
  
He opened his eyes and looked at you, like he was trying to place who you were. “At the church,” he repeated.  
  
“Does your head hurt? Or your neck?” you asked him.  
  
“No.”  
  
“When was the last time you ate?”  
  
He let go of your hand and tried to sit up, “Long time ago.” And then he turned and looked at Daniel’s front door and then back at you, “The chair. We moved it.”  
  
“We did. We’re done. Let’s go eat lunch. Okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Between you and the railing, Brian eventually got steady on his feet, and the two of you got into the waiting cab. The cabbie pulled out into traffic, and then asked you, “Where to?”  
  
“Anywhere,” you told him. “Anywhere but here.”  
  
*********************

   
_where he had turned the water into wine…_  
\--John 2:9

  
  
*********************  
  
  
_suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be_  
  
“What happened?” Brian asked you as soon as the cab turned the corner.  
  
“You were trying to put your cigarette out and you fainted.” He seemed clueless about the catalyst, so you decided to let it go until he seemed more like his usual self. “Have you fainted before?” you asked him.  
  
“No,” he said, his voice still sounding rough, dry. “Not that I know of.” He coughed, tried to clear his throat.  
  
“Maybe you just need to eat.”  
  
The taxi driver stopped in front of a restaurant, turned around and looked you, “This okay?”  
  
“It’s fine,” you told him, and it wasn’t until you’d paid him and both you and Brian had stepped inside that Brian told you, “This is where we ate last night.”  
  
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. You want to go somewhere else?”  
  
“Because it’s right around the corner.”  
  
“We can leave if you want. I didn’t know.” (You and Father Dick had been otherwise occupied.)  
  
But the staff had already recognized him, “Mr. Kinney, back so soon? Table for two?”  
  
“Brian, we can go somewhere else,” you said again, but you were talking to his back because the hostess was leading him through the restaurant to a nice, private table in the back and when you sat down across from him, he said, “I don’t mind. The food’s excellent; the bar’s even better, and it’s not like I’m in New York every week.”  
  
“Well, right. Good point. It’s fine with me.”  
  
And then your faces disappeared behind your menus because you really were starving, and when you finally decided on what you were going to have and closed yours, his was already folded shut on the table, his hands clasped on top of it. “Ready to order?” he asked you.  
  
He waved the waiter over to your table and instructed you to order first. Less than fifteen minutes earlier he’d been out cold, and now he was back to his old self again. You began to wonder if _he_ was the miracle worker.  
  
“I should call Justin; see if he wants anything,” he told you after the waiter had walked away, but there wasn’t much conviction in his voice and as you watched him…he never reached for his phone.  
  
……  
  
“Can I tell you a secret?” you asked.  
  
Water arrived for both of you, and you were relieved that Brian wasn’t starting lunch with liquor. “Sure,” he said, his voice fragrant with disbelief, that you could know something he didn’t.  
  
“In the six years Justin lived here, I never once saw him struggle to find lunch.”  
  
“Is that so?” Brian asked, his eyebrows doing things that most people’s eyebrows can’t even dream of.  
  
“In fact, and I’m sure you’re aware of this, he’s particularly talented at finding the free ones.”  
  
Brian laughed a little and then a lot, and then asked, “And can I tell you a follow-up secret?”  
  
“By all means.”  
  
“That’s because I taught him everything he knows.”  
  
……  
  
You leaned back in your side of the booth, getting comfortable, the adrenaline spike beginning to fade, “Really? Everything? I find that hard to believe.” Brian seemed to find your dubiousness a bit naive so you clarified your position, “The age difference between you? You expect me to believe that a seventeen-year-old kid ends up with you without having a little charm of his own to begin with?”  
  
Brian smiled, his fingers perched above the rim of his water glass, “ _I_ picked him up.”  
  
“What? Out of a catalog?”  
  
“I’m serious; I picked him up. He was just standing there leaning on a pole.”  
  
“Just leaning against a pole?”  
  
“Yep. And then I took him home and showed him mine.”  
  
(You weren’t sure if you believed him; he was about as credible as Amelia was when she took cash out of your coat and when you questioned her about it--while her hand was still in your pocket--she’d just smile at you and say, “But I founded it.”)  
  
……  
  
“And was that was the first trip he’d ever taken to the North pole?” you inquired.  
  
“Chartered? Yes.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you have any pictures?”  
  
“They didn’t make cameras back then,” he told you. “It was a long time ago,” he said, almost wistfully. (Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than you thought…)  
  
“Well, like they say, the rest is history right?”  
  
……  
  
Brian slid his glass to the edge of the table because it was empty and because he saw the waiter coming his way and then looked at you, the smile and nostalgic bravado gone from his face and something else settling in—an emotional fatigue, the same one you’d seen when he was sitting in Daniel’s soon-to-be-retired chair staring out the window less than an hour before,  
  
“No…”  
  
And he stopped, like he didn’t want to finish his sentence, and he stared at the television playing in the bar for a few seconds and you did, too, following his gaze out of habit and the waiter refilled your glasses and walked away, and then Brian seemed more present again, leaning back in the booth, facing you again, his hand rubbing the back of his head, acknowledging for the first time that something had happened to him—only you weren’t exactly sure if he was acknowledging the recent bump on his head tied to his bouncing reality check or if he was acknowledging something much bigger, something he couldn’t describe because it…owned him?  
  
“… the rest isn’t history…”  
  
Because it defined him.  
  
He brought his hand in front of his face again, staring at his fingernails and then spread it on the table, steeling himself as his gaze slid down his arm, over his fingers and officially back to you so he could he finish his thought,  
  
“It’s just that it’s supposed to be.”  
  
……  
  
You didn’t say anything at first, but then you felt like he wanted you to; you felt like he was stuck somewhere, and then all of a sudden you felt really intimidated by this man—by his stature, by the sheer weight of his persona, by that fact that even though he was clearly struggling, he never once abdicated his invisible throne, but you said something anyway because everyone knows that the walls people construct around themselves—well, even if you build your mansion with bricks, you know someone or something will be there sooner or later to huff and puff and blow your house down.  
  
Because if you didn’t believe that, well, you would’ve gone with straw from the get go.  
  
“Sometimes history repeats itself,” you offered.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at the concept, not at you, his meaning very clear: _Tell me something I don’t know._  
  
But you weren’t finished, “But sometimes it’s not about repetition; it’s about …"  
  
You stopped for a second trying to formulate your thoughts because he was really listening to you—attentively—and it caught you off guard.  
  
“It’s about what?” he prodded you.  
  
……  
  
You started again, “You know how you’ll be cleaning out your closet one day and come across an old album you forgot you had—"  
  
“ _Abbey Road._.”  
  
“Sure, perfect, and you’re so psyched you pull it out and stare at it for a while and then decide to play it, but when you find the record player, dust it off, and put the needle on the record, you can’t enjoy it like you used to because—"  
  
“It skips.”  
  
“Exactly.” Brian seemed to like the analogy, and you weren’t surprised because he was an ad man, comparison was his business, so you kept going, “So then you have to decide: are you going to just go buy the CD or are you going to get the record fixed, have the scratch repaired?”  
  
“Buy the CD; the record will never sound like it used to even if they can fix it.”  
  
“Right, of course; that’s the logical thing to do. And after you do that, what happens to the record? Do you throw it away?”  
  
He shook his head, “No, I couldn’t throw away something like that away. Never.”  
  
“Why not? You don’t need it anymore. You got what you wanted—the pleasure of listening to The Beatles.”  
  
“Because it means something to me.”  
  
“More than the music?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay, tell me what it means then, if it means more than the music.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He was right there with you, and you were surprised to see him (to feel him) so accessible; he had that album in his hands; he could see it, and he wasn’t going to put it down.  
  
“I don’t know,” he began and then stopped himself and started again, “I just can’t explain it.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Okay, well, how would you feel if I took it away from you right now?”  
  
He waited about five seconds because his demeanor was changing, his fingers that had been laced together on the table tightened up, “Furious.”  
  
“Furious?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So you don’t know why it’s important to you but you can’t let it go?”  
  
……  
  
He looked up at you, anger and fear simultaneously mapping his face, “I’m going to break it.”  
  
“You want to destroy it?” Fear _of_ the anger. “It means something to you, but you want to destroy it?”  
  
“I don’t want to…”  
  
“Just because someone wants to take it away?”  
  
“I don’t want to,” he continued as if every word was agony, “But that’s what I’m going to do.”  
  
……  
  
In the minute that followed, Brian pulled the salt shaker in front of him and fiddled with it, focusing on it and instead of you; his eye contact quota apparently spent; he couldn’t look at you. “Can you stop yourself?” you asked him, your voice becoming quieter; he felt so fragile to you at that moment.  
  
“No.”  
  
……  
  
“Brian, is this why you left Justin at the hotel last night? Because you felt like this?”  
  
He nodded, almost in shame, but then laughed like he was remembering something, “I left because he’s killing me…just like he said he would.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“With kindness,” he said, staring off into space as if he no longer needed you to keep up your half of the conversation.  
  
And then you understood, “His own special recipe—seven herbs and spices?”  
  
“It’s not like I don’t deserve it,” Brian said, “He learned it from me.”  
  
*********************

   
_Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial…_  
\--James 1:12

  
  
*********************  
  
  
_the light on the dark side of me_  
  
And then he was silent. The appetizers came, and you asked the waiter to bring a pitcher of water because you’d never seen anyone drink as much water in one sitting as Brian was; clearly, the man was on empty. There was no rhyme or reason to what you’d ordered—a little of this, a little of that—pot stickers, stuffed mushrooms, some onion thing, bruschetta—and Brian ate rather sporadically at first because he’d started up again. Whatever was inside him trying to get out—it reminded you of the first car you ever owned, a 1984 Chevette (it was the last year they made them), how whether or not you were going to get where you were going on any given day was a matter of chance; some days the engine would hum and others it would sputter and spit and sigh, leaving you stranded in your driveway. And that was Brian, sputtering sometimes and other times starting to sail, maybe lunch was the fuel he needed?  
  
And most of the time he was talking you were looking at him or trying to anyway, but it was virtually pointless because he was looking all over the place; as if his eyes were chasing a house fly that only he could see…  
  
“It’s just…Justin and I…  
  
……  
  
“My relationship with Justin, well, it kind of…  
  
…..  
  
“I think of it--I picture it--like the last arrow Cupid shot on some Valentine’s Day or something. I mean, he was clearly drunk, his aim was severely compromised, and maybe he was a little pissed off or something. Maybe the arrow before ours, mine, you know, maybe the recipient was ungrateful, so he was pissed off and shot one at me.”  
  
“You think Cupid has road rage or something?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“So you think Cupid shot you in the ass with an arrow and that’s why you and Justin are together, married?” you asked him.  
  
“No, of course not. He shot me in the dick.”  
  
You leaned in put your hand on Brian’s face, “Hold still for a minute.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Making sure your pupils are the same size.”  
  
“Are they?” he asked.  
  
“Unbelievably, yes. Please continue.”  
  
And then the joking was over, “I just mean that our relationship has always been like a moving target; seems like it never stands still for even a couple of days.”  
  
“Well, it’s not boring then.”  
  
“No,” he agreed, “It’s never boring.”  
  
……  
  
But there were things you wanted to know from Brian, things you didn’t understand, so you tried to steer the conversation a little, “You call it a ‘moving target,’ and I’m wondering why you say that? I would think it was a target simply because you were so much older than him. I can’t imagine everybody was okay with that.”  
  
“You’re right, most people weren’t okay with that, including me.”  
  
“So…”  
  
“Didn’t really matter; Justin gets what he wants.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“He’s like a boomerang. The harder you push him away, the more you push him away, the faster he comes back,” Brian said, his voice laced with pride.  
  
“Okay…so he’s tenacious.”  
  
Brian laughed at you, “In overdrive.”  
  
“Stubborn?”  
  
“We have a winner.”  
  
“Determined.”  
  
“You’re on a roll.”  
  
“And this is how he lives his life?”  
  
……  
  
“It’s how he survived,” Brian said, the smile on his face evening out.  
  
……  
  
“And it’s how he loves you,” you said.  
  
And Brian said nothing, just let his water glass hang precariously from his fingers as he stared off into space again; you felt as if he might drop it at any moment, let it shatter without blinking an eye, and it was everything you could do not to just take it from him and sit it down, but you didn’t. You just watched him, trying to figure out what was going on, what had changed all of a sudden. And then even though he wasn’t looking at you, even though he was testing you to see if you’d let him fall again, you decided to say what you were thinking because you could feel it, because he’d convinced you, because you believed it,  
  
“And it’s how you survived, isn’t it?”  
  
*********************

 

  
_When anyone is guilty in any of these ways, he must confess…_  
\--Leviticus 5:5

  
*********************  
  
  
_put the needle on the record,  
put the needle on the record,  
put the needle on the record,  
when the drum beat goes like this_  
  
And when he finally looked at you again, all that water he’d been drinking was abandoning him, welling up right in front of you, and he sat the glass down and covered it, his palm pressing flat, “It was,” he said, “But not anymore.”  
  
You leaned forward and touched him, something you’d never do to a patient, but you couldn’t help yourself, wrapping your hand around his wrist, and he just kept staring at you like _what do I do now?_  
  
You took a deep breath, “Brian, tell me what you think happened last night.” He shook his head like you were trying to highlight his weaknesses, exploit his bad behavior. “No, I mean, what do you remember?”  
  
His eyebrows went up in relief. “That I wanted to fuck; I think. I mean, that’s what I usually want. Something wasn’t right, something weird was happening—"  
  
“Something weird?”  
  
“The target was moving again,” he explained, “So I left.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I went to some bar, drank, and ended up at Daniel’s place, not sure—"  
  
“You called Zeek; he was there.”  
  
“Fuck. Now I’m going to have to give him a raise.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“The rest is mostly a blur. I went upstairs, obviously, and then I woke up in his living room.”  
  
“Where did you think Justin was when you woke up this morning?”  
  
“I knew he was close by; well, I thought he was.”  
  
“But you knew you left him at the hotel last night?”  
  
“Yeah,” he conceded. “There’s a gap there somewhere. Justin told me I made an ass out of myself, but he didn’t give me any details.”  
  
“When you arrived—"  
  
“Were you there when I got there?” he asked you.  
  
“No. When you arrived, you were drunk, stumbling, and belligerent with Zeek and Daniel. You told Daniel that Justin wanted you to go home.”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“You ended up on the living room floor and eventually having what we call a ‘dissociative break.’”  
  
“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”  
  
You told Brian what had happened, how he’d confused Alan and Justin, how what had happened to Alan became crossed with what he believed about Justin over a decade ago, how he was asking to see Justin before they ‘took him away.’ “Daniel called me, and Richard and I went to The Regency, got Justin, and brought him to Daniel’s because he wasn’t answering his cell or anything.”  
  
“He was pissed.”  
  
“When he was in the cab with us, when we told him what happened, he started shaking, Brian. I truly believe that if hadn’t been sitting in the middle, between Richard and myself, he would’ve jumped out of that taxi and run all the way to Daniel’s. He was terrified.”  
  
“He was?”  
  
“Yeah, he was.”  
  
“It was my fault.”  
  
“Funny, that’s what he said—all the way there.”  
  
*********************

 

  
_But I have raised you up for this very purpose, that I might show you my power and that my name might be proclaimed in all the earth._  
\--Exodus 9:16

  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the water_  
  
That Thursday was the day you understood why you always had to be the Holy Ghost; God had a purpose for you—needing you to hover over both the old and the new, the Testaments in human form--because while Jon had left the church with Brian and taken his message to the streets, Daniel was left behind, confined to the walls that housed him, his words his only sword in the battle he was facing.  
.  
You felt like a spectator in a Roman coliseum, floating along the periphery of the church, making sure that no one escaped, and you hoped that wherever Jon was, he was having an easier time of it. Daniel was nothing if not steadfast and brave, but you kept your eye on him because God bless that man; he’d been through one hell of a week, and his luck wasn’t changing.  
  
And you knew something that neither of your physician friends did, you knew that although John walked with Jesus, Daniel was stronger because he had only the gift of prophecy, only his faith to protect him; he would never meet the Messiah whose arrival he foretold, his only choice was to believe what God was telling him.  
  
But you were watching him, and he had his game face on ninety percent of the time, so you figured he was hanging in there…  
  
*********************

   
_…troublemakers among David’s followers said, “Because they did not go out with us, we will not share with them the plunder we recovered…” David replied, “No, my brothers, you must not do that with what the Lord has given us. He has protected us and handed over to us the forces that came against us. Who will listen to what you say? The share of the man who stayed with the supplies is to be the same as that of him who went down to the battle. All will share alike.”_  
\--1 Samuel 30 22:24

 

  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_by now you should've somehow  
realized what you gotta do_  
  
You made your decision to take this course of action after you’d retired to your bedroom earlier that morning, trying to sleep after the night you’d had. You took a sleeping pill, hoping for just a few hours of sleep and were beginning to feel your body relax when the door to your bedroom popped open. At first, you thought you were imagining it because you were in that in between place and sometimes it doesn’t shut all the way, but when you didn’t move, it opened wide. So you stayed still in your bed, wondering what the fuck Justin was doing as he was practically asleep when you came upstairs.  
  
You watched with one very sleepy eye as he walked over to your chair, flipped open his cell phone for light, and began to inspect the ottoman, his finger scratching at the mark Brian’s boot had made, and then your one eye opened wider as he sat down in the chair and very carefully flipped the ottoman over, sat it down, closed his phone and opened it again so the light would come back and on, and started reading the tag.  
  
“Justin, what the hell are you doing?” you asked him.  
  
“Jesus, you scared me. I thought you were asleep.”  
  
“I almost was.” You didn’t even bother to sit up; you didn’t even have it in you at that point. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
“What are you doing?” you asked him for the third time.  
  
“Getting the model number off of your chair.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“So we can have it replaced.”  
  
And he was upside down playing chair detective during this questioning, not looking at you, so finally you said, “Come here, please.”  
  
He flipped the ottoman right side up repeating the model number to himself and then walked over to you, “What?”  
  
“Sit down.” He sat on the edge of your bed as you turned on a lamp, “You don’t need to replace the chair.”  
  
“It’s damaged; I want to replace it.”  
  
You sighed, “I can clean it.”  
  
“It’s black on white, Daniel. It’ll never come out. Trust me.”  
  
You propped your head on your hand and reached for him, your hand resting on his forearm, “You drive me crazy when you get like this.”  
  
“Get like what?”  
  
“There’s a difference between protecting someone and denying them access to their own experiences, Justin.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
“No, not whatever. You got this way yesterday when it was time to watch the footage, turning yourself inside out because you didn’t want Harper to watch it.”  
  
“I had a damn good reason, Daniel. She was _hysterical_ when I got here yesterday; she was crying so hard, she couldn’t even breathe.”  
  
“I know, but it’s okay to cry.”  
  
“Not like that.” He shifted on your bed, fiddling with his phone, “I need to go back downstairs; Brian might wake up soon,” and then got up to leave.  
  
“Yeah, and God forbid if he ‘wakes up’ Justin; the world might stop revolving or something.”  
  
You couldn’t even provoke him as he stood in your doorway, “Sorry I woke you up. We’ll replace the chair. I’m going back downstairs.”  
  
He was lying on both counts. There was no ‘we’ about it, and he didn’t go back downstairs. He went into his studio, his former studio, called and ordered the replacement to be delivered by lunchtime. You heard him rattling off the make and model, the color, your address, a credit card number, and finally, the name on the card:  
  
“Brian A. Kinney.”  
  
*********************

   
_Then I heard a loud voice from the temple saying to the seven angels, "Go, pour out the seven bowls of God's wrath on the earth."_  
\--Revelation 16:1

 

  
*********************  
  
  
_if I should choose to make it part of me  
would surely strike me dead_  
  
To say that Justin was unhappy with you that afternoon was a bit of an understatement; he blamed you, though he didn’t have the guts to say it, for upsetting Brian, for purposely leaving your place before noon to fuck up the chair delivery, for exposing his early morning reparations. But you couldn’t really blame him because it was all true—every single bit of it. To be fair, it hadn’t come easily to you; Jonathon had to push you to summon Justin to the church knowing damn well he’d bring Brian with him, his emotional leash getting tighter and tighter.  
  
“You’re allergic to deceit,” Jonathon had told you that morning, “And you’re just going to have to take a pill and get over it.” So you swallowed your emotions and did it, painful as it was.  
  
The preparations for Alan’s funeral had to be finalized that day, so you’d called Justin there, telling him he needed to compose what he wanted to say, practice it, time it, and help get everything ready for tomorrow. He’d come willingly, and he should’ve been thanking you; you spared him the much less gentle wake up call he would’ve gotten from your cohort. But he wasn’t going to be thanking you anytime soon; he was still fuming as you sat beside him about seven pews from the front, his sneakers lodged in the hymnal holder, a steno pad in his left hand and a pen in his right, nursing a pregnant silence between you that you feared would only be broken by the birth of something bearing the mark of the beast.  
  
Finally you spoke when Nate had stopped playing, the sanctuary quiet for the first time, “Is this the quiet violence you paint?”  
  
“I’m not interested in having a conversation with you right now, Daniel.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”  
  
……  
  
Richard walked by and smiled at you, and you smiled back.  
  
“Justin, I think you’re making this a lot harder than it has to be—"  
  
He turned then and snapped at you, “Why do you insist on lecturing me about something you know _nothing_ about? You don’t know shit about me or what—"  
  
“I wasn’t talking about you; I meant what you’re doing for Alan.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open, and then as his eyes went from cool, clear blue to a scalding red, “Can you just leave me alone, please?”  
  
“Who are you calling?”  
  
“None of your fucking business.”  
  
“Well, good luck with it,” you told him as you got up, “Let me know if you need any help and put your feet down; this isn’t your fucking living room.”

  
*********************

**HARPER COLLIN’S POV**  
  
  
_she’s moving out in all directions_  
  
You’d never hear your cell phone ring that day because at that very moment your name was being broadcast over every loud speaker in Macy’s:  
  
_"Attention Macy’s customers: Would a customer by the name of ‘Ms. Harper Collin’s’ please go to the nearest telephone and dial ‘zero’ for security? I repeat, Ms. Harper Collins, please …"_  
  
“Oh my god, they found her!” you screamed, running so fast you slammed into the jewelry counter, your bags, purse (and all of its contents) flying everywhere as you demanded the phone from the sales girl, “Please, give me the phone! Dial zero!”  
  
_”Security.”_  
  
“This is Harper Collins.” Deep breath. “You just paged me.” Deep breath. “Please tell me you have my daughter.”  
  
_”We have an Amelia Jocelyn Harper-Collins here, yes.”_ You could hear Amelia in the background, “ _I’m ‘upposed to talk to my Mommy now.”_ And then the transfer of the phone, “ _Here you go; she’s on the phone.”_  
  
“Amelia?”  
  
_”Mommy, you’re ‘upposed to come get me right now.”_  
  
“I’m coming right now. I’ll be right there, Amelia. Right there.”  
  
_”Yeah, I got losted by the accident.”_  
  
“I know, sweetie. It’s okay. I’m coming right now. Where’s security?” you asked the sales girl who’d just helped Sarah pick up all of your stuff, except for one of your tampons that landed in the sales girl’s coffee—total loss.  
  
“In the basement.”  
  
“Oh my god, thank you! Thank you so much!” And you and Sarah were off again.  
  
The message Justin left on your cell, you wouldn’t listen to it for hours:  
  
_”Harper, it’s me. I’m at the church…with Sam and Daniel and everybody.  
  
“I’m supposed to write what I want to say at the funeral tomorrow…but I…I don’t know, I guess I’m just not comfortable doing that until I’ve talked to you first. I mean, I don’t even know what you’re going to say.  
  
“I guess, I…I don’t even know where to start. Can you call me when you get this?  
  
“I hope you’re having fun with Sarah; I meant to warn you about the gnomes. Don’t let her give you any. I’ll explain later…when you call me, okay? Bye.”_  
  
*********************

  
_But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea._  
\--Matthew 18:6

  
*********************  
  
  
_this little piggy went to market_  
  
That Thursday was Amelia’s first trip to a department store; up until that day, your daughter’s concept of shopping for clothes was sitting in your lap in front a computer, clicking on some pictures, and then seeing a package arrive on Daniel’s doorstep a few days later; she had no concept of the original definition of the word ‘browsing,’ no idea that that’s what she’d been doing in the children’s department when she got separated from you and Sarah. And it had happened in the blink of an eye; you thought she was with Sarah; Sarah thought she was with you, and according to Security, Amelia thought she’d just help herself to some _Hello Kitty_ jewelry.  
  
Not only was she lost, she was shoplifting.  
  
“Well, I saw her first,” one of the security guards told you after you’d arrived in the basement, found their office, and finally found her. Amelia jumped out of his lap and ran to you and once again, you dropped everything you were carrying, this time just to bend down and hug her and then to sit on the floor and cry.  
  
“It’s okay, Mommy,” she told you, “You founded me.”  
  
“You scared me to death, ‘Melia. You have to stay with me.”  
  
She put her hands on your face, “I knowed that but I founded a pretty dress.”  
  
“You have to take Mommy to the pretty dress; you can’t go by yourself. Never, ever.”  
  
“Yeah, I knowed that. I gotted in trouble,” she told you.  
  
The security guard, his badge read ‘Morris,’ said he saw her on one of the cameras, “She was just filling that little purse she’s carrying with all these bracelets; so, I called up there, and I told Shelley, I said, ‘You got a pint-size princess in the _Hello Kitty_ section, and she’s cleaning you out.’”  
  
They had the whole thing on tape, and before Morris let you watch it, he told you, “You know, we’re trained to watch out for these very complex shoplifting schemes people have these days, so for a while we thought she was part of the real deal. You know, the distraction part of the plot.” And then he pushed play…  
  
And you got to watch your daughter wandering around the child-size jewelry display with her purse dangling from her arm just like yours does, got to watch her pick each pink bracelet up, brand it ‘so ‘squisite’, and then deposit it in her purse like she’d been shoplifting since the day she was born. And then the sales girl, Shelley, approached her, _“May I help you?”  
  
“No.”_ Amelia walked away from her a little bit and kept choosing, complimenting, and confiscating. _“I’m ‘upposed to be shopping right now.”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“AmeliaJocelynHarper-Collins.”  
  
“Are you here with your Mommy, Amelia?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause my Daddy was under the covers ‘cause that’s where his pemis is.”  
  
“Oh.”_  
  
You stopped Morris right then, “You’re giving me this tape right? I have to have it to blackmail her father one day.”  
  
He laughed, “Yeah, you can have it. We’re not gonna press charges.” And the tape continued…  
  
“ _Amelia, we need to put these bracelets back and go find your mommy. I think you got separated from her; she’s probably very worried right now.”  
  
“I’m ‘upposed to buy so many bacelets,”_ Amelia told her, clearly not interested in finding you or in putting them back.  
  
“ _Do you have any money?”_  
  
Amelia turned her little purse upside down, dumping everything she’d shoplifted onto the floor and then bent down and picked something up and gave it to Shelley, “ _I have this money.”  
  
”Sweetie, this is an ice cube… with a fly in it—"  
  
“He’s just betend.”  
  
“Okay, but this isn’t money.”  
  
“’Cause it’s plastic in the fweezer like mommy.”  
  
“Plastic in the freezer like mommy?”  
  
“The fly, he won’t come out; he just lives there ‘cause I don’t why.”_  
  
Shelley started to pick up all the bracelets littering the floor and put them back in the display bin, encouraging Amelia to help, and you were relieved beyond words to see that Amelia did, and then Shelley let her pick out one bracelet for being such a good helper and made sure her ice cube was back in her little purse and said, _”Amelia, does your mommy keep her credit cards in the freezer?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s only for ‘portant.”  
  
“Right. Why don’t we go find Mommy and tell her what a big helper you were?”  
  
“Yeah, I gotted all the bacelets off the floor.”  
  
“What’s your mommy’s name, Amelia?”  
  
“Harper Collins.”  
  
“Say it again?”  
  
“Harper Collins.”  
  
“Are you sure, sweetie? That’s a publisher…”_  
  
You apologized to Morris as he gave you the tape, and then you, Sarah, and Amelia went upstairs to thank Shelley, who said that it was the best part of her day because, “No one’s ever tried to buy anything with an fake ice cube before, and I met somebody who’s actually named Harper Collins! I mean, how crazy is that?”  
  
“How much is the bracelet?” you asked her.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she told you.  
  
“No, I want Amelia to learn that money doesn’t bob up and down in grape juice.”  
  
So Shelley played along, “Three ninety-five.”  
  
So you gave Amelia four dollars and showed her how to put the bracelet on the counter, and when Shelley said, “That’ll be three ninety-five,” you nudged your daughter, “Give her your money, ‘Melia.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“If you want the bracelet, then you have to give her the money. That’s how you buy things.”  
  
But by then Amelia had lost all interest in the bracelet and wanted the cash, so Sarah jumped in and said, “No problem. Amelia, give Shelley the bracelet.” And Amelia did. “Now, Shelley, give Amelia her money back.” And Shelley handed Amelia the four dollars that Harper had just slipped her.  
  
“Great job, Amelia,” Sarah told her. “You just learned the art of the return.”  
  
……  
  
You thought Amelia had dropped her money on the floor because the next thing you knew, she was squatting down looking for something, and when you held out your hand and said, “Come on, ‘Melia, tell Shelley good-bye. It’s time to go.” But she wouldn’t budge, so you bent down to pick her up, “Come on; let’s go. It’s time for lunch.”  
  
“It’s time for the poop,” she whispered to you.  
  
And so for the third time in the last hour, you dropped everything again, this time because you were grabbing Amelia and running toward the direction Shelley pointed you in as fast as you could. “This is why I hate shopping,” you proclaimed as you ran into the ladies room with Amelia in your arms, scoring a touchdown with seconds to spare. “It sucks, you know that?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause we’re ‘upposed to do it on the line.”  
  
“You’re exactly right, ‘Melia,” you told her and then you kissed her on the forehead, “You’re the smartest, prettiest, most amazing little girl in the whole world.”  
  
“Yeah, I already knowed that.”  
  
……  
  
And when hands were washed and hair was fixed and the two of you were nice and calm and ready to go find Sarah and have some lunch, you took Amelia’s hand (firmly) and told her, “I’m having a really good time with Sarah today, but we probably won’t do this shopping thing again for awhile.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re ‘upposed to bring my practice potty and you forgotted it.”  
  
“That’s your father’s fault; he didn’t put it by the front door.”  
  
And that was the one thing that day that Amelia actually bought.  
  
*********************

  
_Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. But the angel said to him: "Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard.”_  
\--Luke 1:13

  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_he got feet down below his knees  
hold you in his armchair  
you can feel his disease _  
  
Lewis was waiting for you in the usual spot, a spot you’d met Alan in plenty of times and it bothered you to see Lewis standing there instead of him, but he disappeared quickly and within five minutes, Stitch had taken his place.  
  
You’d forgotten what a completely different man Stitch is above ground, how threatening he looks in his filthy camouflage clothes, his dark sunglasses he never takes off, a gray knit cap pulled down over his hair. You’d never believe he was a man who took care of so many when you saw him on the sidewalk; he looked too paranoid to cross the street, wouldn’t even look at you when he was talking to you.  
  
“Tell me what the problem is,” you said. So he began again, like earlier, the hysteria in his voice, and it was annoying you, so you stopped him. “Okay, okay, stop. Why don’t you just show me? We’ll just walk Al’s route, and you can show me; help you get some of this nervous energy out.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
As you walked beside him—well, if you closed your eyes, he could’ve been Alan, the way he counted his steps, talked to himself, and you realized that what you thought was Alan all those years was Alan mimicking Stitch. Because when you’d finally arrive at Harper’s, Al’s personality would morph again; he’d be more like her, nurturing; the two of them were so physically close sometimes that you felt uncomfortable being there, and that was ridiculous because Harper’s concept of intimacy never involved narrowing down the numbers. And when Alan met Justin, well, he became him; the artistic side of him peeking out, all that talent he had and he only used it to make a friend.  
  
Stitch stopped at the backdoor of a restaurant and pointed to the ground and there were trays of food covered in foil and dated, some of it hot, and then a stack of commercial-sized canned goods; the kind you unloaded and stocked for Gabe every single week.  
  
“It’s shit like this, but it’s at every stop in ten times the amount we usually get. It’s everywhere. Sometimes they’re notes telling us to go somewhere else, some stop that’s not even on our route. And we go there and there’s clothes and books and medicine and hell, there was even an envelope of cash yesterday.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” you told him as you knocked on the back door, loudly, several times. There wasn’t a restaurant in the city you weren’t familiar with, and when the back door flung open, a young woman—Carrie?—you fucked her once, black hair, black clothes, lots of piercings—squealed when she saw you, “Zeek! Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in forever!”  
  
“Hey, Carrie.” (You prayed you were right; she didn’t correct you.)  
  
“What’s up?” And then she saw your companion, “Hey, Stitch.”  
  
“How do you know me?” he demanded.  
  
“Calm down, man.” You stepped inside the door to talk to her and to get away from him for a second. “Sorry, he has such great manners, doesn’t he?”  
  
“I always forget; we’re supposed to pretend we don’t know who he is,” she said.  
  
“Who told you that?”  
  
“Alan. He said he doesn’t like it. That’s why Alan made the rounds. Is that why you’re here?”  
  
There were the familiar sounds of a busy New York restaurant in the background: the sounds of people trying to get a lot done in a small amount of space, plates and glasses clanging together, faucets, wait staff and cooks shouting at one another, cash registers printing receipts…  
  
“I’m trying to help him; he says everyone on Alan’s route is overwhelming them with donations; it’s freaking him out.”  
  
“Well, we’re trying to help. Alan knew so many people; he had this down to a science, and he would tell us—"  
  
“Us?”  
  
“The restaurants on his route. I mean, we know there are children down there; he always knew what he needed Zeek; Lewis is kind of scatterbrained. We don’t really know what else to do. We throw most of this stuff away or give it to shelters; we gave it to Alan because we knew he was doing something with it. He needed it.” And then she stopped and started again, “I mean, I can’t believe he’s gone. I used to see him at least twice a week.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“The funeral’s tomorrow, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I’m coming. We all are. We decided this morning; we’re closing our restaurants until five p.m. tomorrow; all of us who were on his route.”  
  
“Whoa.”  
  
“He came to us; tomorrow, we’ll go to him.”  
  
“Maybe afterwards, after the funeral, we can sit down and figure out how to get this stuff to them,” you suggested.  
  
“Sure, of course. Tell his sister that we’ll be there, okay?”  
  
“I will. Thanks.”  
  
She held the door open for you as you walked back out, “It was good to see you again, Zeek. How’s your little brother?”  
  
“Exactly the same.”  
  
“Tell him I said to loosen up.”  
  
“I will, but it won’t help.”  
  
……  
  
“Well, what’d she say?” Stitch asked as soon as the door shut.  
  
“We’re going to meet with the people on his route tomorrow after the funeral and get it all straightened out. You don’t need to worry about it.”  
  
“How does she know me? I wanna know.”  
  
“Stitch, wearing dark glasses doesn’t make you invisible.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“Well, how do you think she knows you? I’ll give you two choices: a gigantic government conspiracy or because you hung with Alan and Alan was here twice a week?”  
  
“Probably Al.”  
  
“Gee, you think?”  
  
*********************

  
_The angel answered, "I am Gabriel.”_  
\--Luke 1:19

  
*********************  
**TED SCHMIDT’S POV**  
  
  
_we’re workin’ our jobs,  
collect our pay_  
  
The only time Gabe Zirrolli wore a tie to work was when Brian was out of town and had left him in charge. It was a running joke between you and Cynthia, and there was usually an office pool going as to what color it would be because the two of you had begun to notice a trend with Gabe. If Brian had worn a gray tie the week before, then Gabe would wear one the next week. It never failed. He was Brian’s fashion-stalker.  
  
And it’s no secret that Brian subscribes to every remotely popular magazine in circulation; he’s in advertising, but he’s also on the mailing list of every single men’s clothier, cobbler, or pusher of cologne, underwear, jewelry, hair products, sex toys, you-name-it for men. Shortly after settling in at Kinnetik, you had to have a much bigger mailbox installed just to handle all of Brian’s crap.  
  
And it’s also no secret that anytime Brian is done with any of these men’s magazines or catalogs and tosses them in his trash can that Gabe takes them—without asking and without a clue that everyone (including Brian) has seen him do it. You and Cynthia figure he must have an entire room at his condo filled with Brian Kinney glossy mag leftovers because you seriously can’t picture him every throwing any of them away.  
  
Now you have to understand that when Gabe first came to work for Brian and everyone would attend the Wednesday morning management meeting, Gabe was initially showing up in his chef outfit. He spared everyone his precious white hat—in that it wasn’t on his head, but exactly twelve inches to his right on the table--but seeing him (sitting right across from Debbie, mind you) is his starched-like-a-straight-jacket, white, _monogrammed_ chef shirt was enough to get Zeek going and then everyone else laughing and derailing the entire meeting.  
  
“Got a KKK rally after this, ‘Cakes?” Zeek would ask him, and Gabe would glare at him, which would only encourage his brother.  
  
“Wrong hat, dude,” Rube would say.  
  
So Zeek would try something else, “Hey, if we turn off the lights in here, will you glow in the dark?”  
  
“Do it,” Rube said, “See if it works.” (Of course, Ruben was serious.)  
  
“Put your hat on first, man; that’ll be whacked.”  
  
“You’re gonna get whacked if you don’t shut the fuck up,” Gabe would inevitably respond, spiraling into profanity.  
  
And then Zeek asked him if his underwear was white, too, and you had to hold Gabe back; he was ready to fly over the table.  
  
But that particular morning was Thursday, not Wednesday, and the management meeting the day before had been utterly useless. Gabe arrived wearing a black tie, of course, and when he asked if anyone had anything they needed to discuss, Debbie informed him that he didn’t need to keep stopping by at lunchtime because, “All my ketchup bottles are filled. You need to chill.”  
  
And of course Gabe being Gabe couldn’t just leave it alone, “I noticed, however, that, over half of the napkin dispensers weren’t filled to capacity.”  
  
“Well, stay out of the ladies room.”  
  
And then Deb smacked her gum and gave you this shit-eating grin and looked back at Gabe like, _What else you got, pretty boy?_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And he (wisely) had nothing, “Well, then, anything else?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ruben offered, “I miss Zeek like whoa.”  
  
……  
  
So you and Cynthia were a bit confused when Gabe walked in Thursday morning in his week old red tie, his briefcase in hand and asked to speak to you alone in your office. You agreed, told him you were going to get some coffee first, so he went down the hall by himself, and Cynthia followed you to the coffee machine, “Oh my god, do you think he’s going to resign or something? He looks pissed off.”  
  
“He always looks like that,” you told her. “It’s part of his _je ne sais quoi.”_  
  
“Maybe he can’t take it anymore.”  
  
“Take what? Making a shit load of money, running a restaurant with pretty much free reign? Yeah, I’m sure he’s at the end of his rope.”  
  
“Well, go find out.”  
  
……  
  
When you entered your office, Gabe was on his cell phone, and he hung up as you sat down at your desk and asked, “What’s up? Everything okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to New York. Zeek’s having a hard time with this.”  
  
“I can imagine.”  
  
“I’m not going to bother Brian with a phone call, from what Zeek tells me, he and Justin are… Well, the whole thing is taking a toll on everyone. Emmett can handle the restaurant.”  
  
“It’s not a problem. Go.”  
  
“Thanks, Ted.”  
  
_Ted._  
  
The week had already been so strange; no one calling you Theodore or Pointdexter, and then Gabe walking out of Kinnetik with no spirit in his step or pride in his posture. The only fashion strutting down the runway that morning was grief.  
  
*********************

 

 

  
_“Do not be far from me,  
for trouble is near  
and there is no one to help._  
\--Psalms 22:11

  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_God only knows,  
God makes his plan,  
the information’s unavailable to the mortal man_  
  
Back at St. Agnes’s, things weren’t going exactly as planned. You’d envisioned your sanctuary as a lava lamp that day; everyone who was there could do whatever they wanted, move about freely, express themselves, as long as they all stayed inside, but somehow that didn’t seem to be working. Daniel had seemingly disappeared.  
  
Just like Daniel the Prophet, Daniel the Psychiatrist was a strong man, it wasn’t in his nature to walk away from a battle, and it certainly wasn’t like him to abandon the lion’s den all together…and leave the lion behind, especially when you thought, when your instincts told you he might actually be wounded…  
  
But the lion wasn’t exactly licking his wounds; you couldn’t really tell what he was doing, but you sat there and watched him anyway, the sole member of your flock, feeling less like a man of God and more like that Assistant Principal guy in _The Breakfast Club_ presiding over some unholy detention.  
  
*********************

 

  
_Is not my house right with God?_  
\--2 Samuel 23:5

  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_although I search myself,  
there’s always someone else I see_  
  
Never in your life had something felt so difficult, and yet you were determined to do what you were supposed to do, what you were expected to do, and so you began on a clean, yellow-ruled page with a _Cross_ ink pen that Daniel had let your borrow and which no doubt had his initials on it somewhere…  
  
It took you almost an hour, but it felt like twelve, and when you were done you had a headache and were really thirsty. The only person around was Father Dick who was sitting at the piano, so you walked up to him, handed him the pad and pen and said, “I don’t know where Daniel went, but I’m done. Can you give this to him for me?”  
  
*********************

  
_“This man Daniel was found to have a keen mind and knowledge and understanding, and also the ability to interpret dreams, explain riddles and solve difficult problems. Call for Daniel, and he will tell you what the writing means."_  
\--Daniel 5:15

  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_alone in the church by and by_  
  
You took it from Justin and laid it on top of the piano, “You going somewhere?”  
  
“I want to get out of here; get something to eat. You know, clear my head.”  
  
“Okay, but if you’re hungry, we have a fully stocked kitchen downstairs.” He looked mildly interested. “In fact, I think that’s where Nate and Sam are. Why don’t you go down there and see?”  
  
Justin glanced back at the pad he’d given you and then asked, “The kitchen’s through which door?”  
  
You pointed the way, “Right over there. I’ll be down there in a minute; I’m starving, too.”  
  
And when he vanished through the doorway, you glanced around a few times, felt like you were all alone, and then slid the pad across the top of the piano until it was close enough that you could read it. You were pulling your reading glasses out of your shirt pocket when a quiet voice came from behind you, scaring the ever-loving shit out of you, “He finally finished?”  
  
“Holy mother of Jesus!” It was Daniel. “Where have you been?”  
  
“Hiding in the confessional.”  
  
_Why didn’t I think to look there?_  
  
“So this is it, huh?” Daniel said, tilting it a little so he could see it better.  
  
“Is this one of those things that I’m allowed to look at?”  
  
Daniel smiled as he flipped through the pages, “I don’t see why, not like he’s my patient.”  
  
So you resumed finding the perfect spot on your nose for your glasses…

 

 

 

  
  
“Let me know when I can turn the page,” Daniel said.  
  
“Turn.”

 

 

 

 

   
“I’m ready,” you told him.

 

 

 

 

  
  
“Whoa,” you said when both of you were done. “What do you think?”  
  
“That’s about what I was expecting.”  
  
“See, that’s what freaks me out about you and Jon, that whole ‘nothing’s ever a surprise to me’ thing you have going on.”  
  
Daniel laughed, “That’s not always the case. We were very surprised when we met you.”  
  
“Oh, wow, I’m so flattered.”  
  
Daniel smiled at you, “You’re so kooky.”  
  
“So, is Justin right about what he says?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“That he’s more subtle in charcoal?”  
  
Daniel tore off the top three pages of the pad, folded them and put them and his pen in his pocket, “Justin? Subtle? I’m afraid not. There are shades of gray, I suppose, but he always gets his point across.”  
  
“Is he really going to read that at the funeral?” you asked.  
  
“God, no. He isn’t even making a speech.”  
  
“He isn’t?”  
  
“No, he’s going to narrate the slide show.”  
  
“But…then…why…does he know he’s narrating the slide show?” you wanted to know.  
  
“Not yet. He’ll think it’s his idea in about an hour.”  
  
“You’re ‘old school’ aren’t you, doc? You’ve got the whole thing planned out before anything goes down, don’t you?”  
  
“Isn’t that what you told me? Old Testament, Daniel has the gift of prophecy; he knows the outcome from the get go?”  
  
“Your mother must’ve been a good Christian woman.”  
  
“From your mouth to God’s ears. Now, remind me again what Jon’s gift is?”  
  
This was, hands down, Daniel’s favorite Bible story of all time…  
  
How in The Old Testament, Daniel was strong, and brave, and always right, being a prophet and all, and how in The New Testament, well, John couldn’t really make up his mind. Was he…  
  
John the Baptist?  
John the Disciple?  
John the Evangelist?  
John the Elder?  
John the Divine?  
  
Well, you can see the difficulty inherent in that. According to Daniel—the earthly one—it was par for the course because his best friend could never just be good at _one_ thing, he had to excel at everything, and while he was doing that, he had to go all over the world espousing all of his brilliant theories and techniques—the Gospel according to Dr. Jon (if you will) —and knowing Jon, he probably really believed he was related to Jesus, some eight hundred and twenty-seventh cousin twice-removed or something. So, basically, Jon’s talent was running his mouth, and as far as Daniel was concerned, that played second fiddle to a prophet any day of the week.  
  
(You didn’t have the heart to tell Daniel that John was much better looking.)  
  
……  
  
You were getting close to the church kitchen and could hear Sam doing his Julia Child impression, and that’s when you asked Daniel, “How do you think Jon’s doing out there? You know, taking it to the streets? We haven’t heard from him.”  
  
“That’s probably a good thing,” Daniel told you, “Just means that when we do, the story he tells will be that much longer.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I gotta find my ear plugs.”  
  
*********************

   
_"If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone..."_  
\--John 8:7

 

  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_we’d like to know a little bit about you for our files_  
  
Brian was rescuing a tomato that had rolled off his salad plate when you asked him, “You mentioned earlier, you have a son?”  
  
He smiled, “Yeah, Gus. He lives in Toronto.”  
  
“How old is he?”  
  
“Eleven going on twenty.”  
  
“Must’ve be hard to have him so far away, especially when he was an infant.”  
  
“Oh, no, he lived in Pittsburgh until he was five. He was born the night I met Justin actually.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“Yeah, our nocturnal activities were interrupted by a junket to the maternity ward. Justin named him.”  
  
“That is absolutely bizarre.” (Again, you reminded yourself…recent head injury.)  
  
“Well, it was a good thing because if Justin hadn’t been there, I’d have a son named Abraham.” You choked on your _Diet Coke_ , coughing because it went down the wrong pipe. “Are you okay?” Brian asked. “Want me to smack you on the back or something?”  
  
“I’m fine; I’m fine. Are you shitting me with this?” you asked when you recovered.  
  
“Honest Abe. He lives in Canada now with his two moms and his sister, Jenny.”  
  
“Is she yours as well?”  
  
“No, she was fathered by my friend, Michael.”  
  
“I feel like I should be paying you for this entertainment or something.”  
  
He laughed, “You can’t afford me, trust me.”  
  
“So tell me about Gus; what’s he like?”  
  
“What’s he like…  
  
“Well, he’s your average boy, I guess, except that he’s raised by two lesbians and has a fag for a dad, so that’s kind of odd. I mean, he called me the other day to tell me that he still thinks girls are disgusting but that doesn’t mean he’s gay yet.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“He just wanted me to know that, you know, in case I was sitting around wondering if my son was gay yet or something.”  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
“He gives me a status report on the straight/gay thing about every few months. Kind of reminds me of a freshman in college who keeps calling home to tell his parents that he’s changed his major.”  
  
“He’s conscious of your expectations in that department?”  
  
“Well, I think he thinks I have expectations in that department, so he just wants to keep me updated. He does the same thing to Lindsay. We had ‘the talk’ with him almost two years ago, and now he pays us back by having ‘the talk’ with us.”  
  
“Tit for tat.”  
  
“Well, no tits. Those are still disgusting.”  
  
“Right, I get it. Well, I have to admit I’m a little envious; that’ll probably be my main regret in life—not having children.”  
  
“There’s certainly nothing more terrifying than producing a tiny version of yourself, but you have plenty to be proud of; you’re fucking a priest.”  
  
*********************

 

  
_A gossip betrays a confidence,  
but a trustworthy man keeps a secret. _  
\--Proverbs 11:13

  
*********************  
  
  
  
_anything we are  
you and I have always been  
for ever and ever_  
  
Okay.  
  
Admittedly, at first, you were a little taken aback, and granted, people that suffer sudden and unexpected head injuries have been known to spew profanities at nuns and other such things, so you sat back for a minute to try to gage Brian’s intention, and then he must’ve realized what he said and laughed at you. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”  
  
And then you laughed and you went back to your salads and it was all good. It was sort of better than good; it was rather fortuitous, if you will…  
  
“Actually, Brian, I was kind of hoping I could talk to you about that…whole…thing.”  
  
“Talk to me?”  
  
“You know, off the record.”  
  
“When were we on the record?” he wanted to know.  
  
“Okay, good point.”  
  
“Why’d you wanna talk to me about it? Justin tell you I fucked a preacher before or something?”  
  
“No, he didn’t, but you did?”  
  
“Yeah, and he was there, too. We were at the baths; it was hot.”  
  
“Okay, TMI, but, well, I wanted to talk to you about it because even though I’ve only known you for a very short while—"  
  
“And let’s face it, for most of that time, I haven’t been conscious.”  
  
“True. I think you'd be the one person who can help me with the aspect of my relationship with Richard that I’m really struggling with.”  
  
Brian looked at you in a rather peculiar way, studying you with one eyebrow up and then the other, “It’s a cold day in hell when anyone solicits me for relationship advice.”  
  
And then you couldn’t stand it anymore, you just blurted out what had been bothering you for months, what you’d been keeping inside unable to express to anyone—including Daniel—hell, especially Daniel, “I need your help. Richard, he wears Wrangler® jeans, and I can’t get him to stop. Wrangler® jeans and flannel shirts. He’s a priest who’s really a fag dressed like a lesbian.”  
  
You felt so much better after just getting that out in the open.  
  
……  
  
“You were right to come to me,” Brian said, finally appreciating the gravity of your situation. “Are you in love with him?”  
  
“Oh god, please, let’s just not even go there.”  
  
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything,” he said, his elbows propped on the table so that his hands could face each other and his fingertips could do that evil dance that villains always do in the movies before they dip their prey into a vat of hot wax.  
  
“Yes,” you said, sounding like a love-sick twelve-year-old with braces, “Yes, I love him.”  
  
“That’s what I was afraid of.”  
  
“You don’t think it’s fixable?” you asked him.  
  
“That depends. Does his ass look good in Wrangler® jeans?”  
  
(Oh, the shame of it all…)  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then I’m afraid you’re doomed.”  
  
_Nooooooooo._  
  
……  
  
“Jon, I’m kidding.”  
  
“Oh, thank god.”  
  
“I know exactly what you’re going through. When I met Justin, he was attending a private school and had to wear a uniform—"  
  
“That’s hot.”  
  
“Hold on a second, please. Yes, it was hot some of the time, but it was also a rather horrific reminder that I was fucking somebody who’s biggest worry in life was his SAT score.”  
  
“So what did you do? How did you handle it?”  
  
“I just pretended that we were in a porno movie.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s so cheap, so tacky, so—"  
  
“Jon, desperate times call for desperate measures.” And then Brian got a dreamy look on his face, “It did take me a long time to get that soundtrack out of my head though. I’d only use it as a temporary solution.”  
  
“Well, then what’s the long term solution?”  
  
Brian thought about it for a while, your salad plates disappeared making way for your entrees, and he was cutting his steak to be sure they cooked it to his specifications when it came to him, “We brainwash him.”  
  
“Brainwash him? How?”  
  
“Lock him in a dark room for twenty-four hours and make him watch a non-stop slide show of Jesus wearing all the high-end labels.”  
  
“What about the sandals? Does Armani or Gucci make sandals?”  
  
“Hmm, good question. I’ll have to look into that.”  
  
And then Brian’s cell phone rang. “Is it Justin?” you asked. He shook his head. “It’s Zeek,” and he flipped it open…  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“He is?”  
  
“Actually, that would be great. Have him bring a suit, shirt, shoes, everything for Justin for tomorrow.”  
  
“Left side.”  
  
……  
  
“You are?”  
  
……  
  
“Whoa.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Hey—  
  
“Whatever I said to you last night—"  
  
“Twenty percent my ass.”  
  
“Okay, later.”  
  
He hung up and told you, “Gabe’s coming up, Zeek’s brother, which works out—"  
  
“Justin didn’t bring a suit with him?” you asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
He laughed, “Of course, I never go anywhere without a suit.”  
  
“Why didn’t Justin bring one?” you asked.  
  
Brian looked at you like were an idiot, shrugged his shoulders, and started eating his steak.  
  
“Because he didn’t think Alan was going to die?” you asked.  
  
“I told him there was no harm in just packing one,” Brian said, his voice suddenly flat, no emotion at all.  
  
“But he wouldn’t?”  
  
He didn’t answer your question, but the emotion was back, “I said, ‘There’s room in my suitcase. I can put it in mine if you want.’”  
  
“And?” you asked.  
  
“He more or less told me-in a nice way-to fuck off.”  
  
*********************

   
_Now choose life, so that you and your children may live._  
\--Deuteronomy 30:19

 

  
*********************  
  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_and ask many questions as children often do_  
  
Amelia had eaten a champion’s lunch in Macy’s café: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, macaroni and cheese, chocolate milk, and was rounding it off with a gingerbread man whose head she would eat last so that she’d have somebody to talk to up to the very last second. When the three of you sat down to eat, you and Sarah realized that in all of the chaos, you’d never actually gotten a dress for Amelia, so she’d volunteered to go back upstairs to the children’s department to get the two you both liked and the little shoes while you stayed with Amelia because you needed to talk with your daughter one-on-one. Not about her new life of crime, but about what was happening the next day, make sure she understood at least the basics about her Uncle Alan, that he was never coming back.  
  
You’d put it off for as long as you could.  
  
“I’m bery, bery sorry, Misser Gingerbed, but I hafta eat you now,” Amelia said to her cookie, and then she did what she always does, which is take a big bite and then try to chew while pretending to channel the perishing gingerbread man’s agony at the same time. It’s disturbing and it’s all Sam’s fault because he animates everything. God forbid a cookie just be a cookie, you know?  
  
He told you it was an unfortunate side effect from a very lonely childhood, and that made you feel really bad for him, so you quit picking on him and probably gave him an extra blow job or something. But now that the cookie was gone and Amelia was immensely proud of herself for eating her entire lunch perched on her throne (booster seat) for all of Macy’s to see, you decided to try and see if you could explain this whole fucking mess to her.  
  
“’Melia?”  
  
“I ate a bery good lunch, Mommy.”  
  
“You sure did. You were hungry.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You remember this morning when I told you that we were going shopping today to buy a dress for you for tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s my birfday.”  
  
“No, honey. It’s not your birthday tomorrow; your birthday is a month from now. Tomorrow we have to wear a dress for Uncle Alan, remember?”  
  
“I ‘member.”  
  
“What do you remember?” you asked her.  
  
She looked at you, and then reached out with her peanut butter fingers and touched your hair, and said, “’Cause Brime Kinney is here,” as if it was a subject far too serious for you to trouble yourself with.  
  
You held her hand, wiping it off with a napkin, “Why is Brian here, Amelia?”  
  
“Because Waffle is bery sad.”  
  
“Why do you think Justin is sad?”  
  
Amelia fidgeted in her booster seat, drank some more milk, and when you prodded her again, she said, “’Cause I frowed the pink people cookies all the way ‘cross the studio ‘cause you were sad and Brime Kinney was ‘upposed to—"  
  
“Why was I sad, Amelia?”  
  
“’Cause Brime Kinney was—"  
  
You tried another way, “’Melia, remember when you met Brian, what did you do for him?”  
  
“I frowed my cookies.”  
  
“No, before that, the first time. You showed him something, remember? And Daddy was helping you?”  
  
She tapped her feet on her chair, “My Uncle Alan dance, like this.” And she did her seated version which garnered quite a few weird stares from people at nearby tables.  
  
“Right, you did your dance. Why did you have to do it for Brian and not for Uncle Alan? Do you remember?”  
  
“'Cause Uncle Alan, he was atted the hobspital.”  
  
“Why didn’t Uncle Alan come home from the hospital?” you asked her.  
  
She threw her little hands up the same way she does when she defends the fly in the ice cube, “’Cause he just lives there now.”  
  
“Come here, ‘Melia,” you said as you picked your daughter up and held her in your lap, mostly so she wouldn’t see you cry. “You know how Dr. Cartwright and Dr. Jon work at the hospital every day, how they help people get better?”  
  
“'Cause Dr. Car-ride and Dr. Jon, sometimes they fix peoples a lot.”  
  
“Right. But sometimes people can’t be fixed. Sometimes they’ve been hurt too badly and they die.”  
  
“I knowed that,” she said, playing with her shoes, probably getting bored with your attempts at explanation.  
  
“Uncle Alan got hurt, Amelia, and he’s not coming back; we’re not going to see him again. He couldn’t be fixed.”  
  
“He was too boken.”  
  
“Right.” And then you stood her up on your lap and turned her around to face you, “So tomorrow we’re going to wear pretty dresses and go to church with Daddy and Dr. Cartwright, and Dr. Jon, and Justin—"  
  
“And Brime Kinney.”  
  
“And Brian, and Sarah, and Zeek and we’re going to tell Uncle Alan how much we love him, and how much we’re going to miss him, and then we’re going to tell him good-bye.”  
  
“I’m going to be sad like you, Mommy.”  
  
“I’ll be very sad tomorrow; everybody will.”  
  
“Yeah, and then it’s my birfday.”  
  
As you gave her a hug, you saw Sarah coming back down the escalator. Amelia was close enough you thought and as long as Brian was in New York every day was her birthday anyway…  
  
*********************

   
_But Ruth replied, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me."_  
\--Ruth 1:16-17

 

  
*********************  
**LEO BROWN’S POV**  
  
  
_people get ready_  
  
And so it came to pass in the AfterDeath that all Hell began to break loose, and you began to wonder as you raced from crisis to crisis if you were all just pawns in some Unholy video game that had just sold out in the Netherworld. The order of events, well, who knows; it probably doesn’t really matter…  
  
All of the televisions were on; they were all blaring, all showing different things, Chris was still hovering over Cody, perpetually stuck in his predatory stance, and Alan was going berserk trying to keep up with all the feeds because, “Everybody’s everywhere. What the fuck is going on?” He said they all felt equally important to him; he could no longer distinguish priorities; he was being flooded. He turned to Ruth, to his mother for guidance, but she—and you’re gonna love this—was running the kitchen.  
  
Jack had been tossed out on his keester, but not by any of you, by whoever or whatever was lubing the cosmic joystick. And Ruth didn’t want to be in there, but she wasn’t given a choice. And it wasn’t a kitchen anymore either. It was a bar… One guess. Yep.  
  
_Babylon._  
  
“This is NOT good,” Vic declared. “Not good at all.”  
  
“Why?” you asked him. “Why?”  
  
“I don’t know; I’m just telling you this is bad news.”  
  
……  
  
Because there was no ladies room for Sandra Massey to banish herself to while she watched her son commit heresy of every imaginable type with his clergy-lover, she’d banished herself to cowering underneath the picnic table and was refusing to come out, screaming and begging for forgiveness while Emma Cartwright stood in front of the televisions and beamed from ear to ear as her son made her proud over and over and over. Emma had worn Sandra down, proudly pointing out all of Jonathon’s flaws---namely his express-train to Hell and the fact that, “I think he really does think he’s Jesus. He’s absolutely delusional.” As a result, Sandra had yanked nearly every last hair out of her head.  
  
And for all the bitching and moaning Jack did when he was in the kitchen, he couldn’t bear to be outside of it. He was a nervous wreck, pacing, biting his fingernails, cursing, trying to get back in and being bounced off by some invisible shield, and were he not already bald, his hair would’ve probably been yanked out, too. But while Alan was watching Harper and Amelia shop, Nate and Sam fiddle at the piano, Justin fume over his argument with Brian and with Daniel, and Father Dick and Jon pass lusty glances at one another when they thought no one was looking, the TV volume went off, the lights went out and then came back on—neon and strobe that time—and club music began to pulse through the whole place.  
  
“Oh shit,” said Vic. “Oh shit.”  
  
And then a weird smell came wafting through…  
  
“What is _that_?” Emma asked.  
  
And you and Vic answered in unison, “Man sex.”  
  
“No!” Sandra screamed from under the picnic table, “No, please, no!”  
  
And then you looked over at Ruth and oh-my-god. She was young and hot and tending bar, and Alan said, “Mom, you look just like Harper!”  
  
“Thanks!” And she was smiling and having a good time and then all the screens began to show the same image: Brian and Jon, leaving the church, getting in a cab, unpacking a chair, all of it to a _thumpa, thumpa_ dance beat, and then daylight again and cigarettes, and a lot of nothing and then…  
  
_”JACK KINNEY, ORDER UP!”_  
  
Brian flat on his back on the sidewalk and Jon panicking.  
  
“What’s going on?” Sandra asked, smacking her head on the table as she tried to look up.  
  
_”NOW, KINNEY. ORDER UP!”_  
  
And Ruth was insistent, banging on the bar, and the image on the screen had frozen—paused on all nine screens.  
  
_”GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE, JACK!”_  
  
And Jack was walking—not of his own free will—and kept glancing at the televisions and then back at Ruth, and when he finally got to the bar, Ruth smiled at him and said, “What’ll it be?”  
  
“You bitch.”  
  
“I’m sorry; I don’t know how to make one of those,” she said, sweet as Georgia pie, and then sat a huge Martini down in front of him. Jack stared at it, and stared at it, and you knew he wanted it because the AfterDeath sure as hell didn’t have liquor by the drink, but when he tried to pick it up, it was too heavy. He turned and looked over his shoulder at all of you watching him, and when he turned back around, the olives had risen to the top.  
  
Jack read what they said and shook his head like he didn’t understand, so you walked over to him, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Look at it,” he demanded, his voice wavering like he was actually going to cry or something.  
  
So you did.  
  
“Who is it?” Vic asked.  
  
“Nobody,” you replied.  
  
And then music stopped and the feed on the televisions was playing again. Brian was trying to sit up simultaneously on all nine screens.  
  
“What do you mean ‘nobody?’” Vic asked. “It’s always somebody.”  
  
“Look at it,” you told him. “Come look at it. It isn’t a name; all it says is:  
  
“ _EMPATHY.”_  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from _This Little Light of Mine_ author unknown, George Harrison’s _My Sweet Lord_ , Brewer and Shipley’s _One Toke Over the Line_ , Three Dog Night’s _Joy to the World_ , The Police’s _Spirits in the Material World_ , The Beatles’s _Come Together_ , Laurie London’s _He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands_ , B. J. Thomas’s _(Hey Won't You Play) Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song_ , Republica’s _Ready to Go_ , Matchbox Twenty’s _Bent_ , The Beatles’s _Yesterday_ , Seal’s _Kiss From a Rose_ , Billy Jam’s _Put the Needle on the Record_ , Gene McLellan’s _Put Your Hand in the Hand_ , Oasis’s _Wonderwall_ , Brewer and Shipley’s _One Toke Over the Line_ again, The Talking Heads _And She Was_ , the nursery rhyme _This Little Piggy Went to Market_ , The Beatles’s _Come Together_ again, Paul Simon’s _Slip Sliding Away_ twice, Elton John’s _Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me_ , Live’s _I Alone_ , Simon and Garfunkel’s _Mrs. Robinson_ from the motion picture soundtrack of _The Graduate_. Kenny Loggins’s _Whenever I Call You Friend_ , Dishwalla’s _Counting Blue Cars_ , and Curtis Mayfield’s _People Get Ready._  
  
Bible verses taken from…  
  
Oh come on…  
  
I'll give you three guesses…  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , [](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_goddess**](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/) , [](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**amillionicons**](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/649724.html#)[**joelzbutterly**](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/649724.html#) , [](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_duration**](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/) , and some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)

 


	41. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 38-Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 3/26/07] This chapter took up 2 posts on LJ. It's posted here in full.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 38-RESURRECTION**  
  
**STITCH’S POV**  
  
  
_it's been a long, long time coming,  
but I know a change is gonna come_  
  
There was no way around it; Alan’s death was going to mean permanent changes in your life, and for all the obsessive planning you’d done over the years trying to keep everything just right, you couldn’t for the life of you figure out why you’d never even considered this scenario because this was a what your buddies in the service would’ve called FUBAR: fucked up beyond all repair. And as you stood across the street from NYPD headquarters, hidden from view, you watched Zeek’s brother get out of some shiny limousine and follow Zeek inside the building, and you tried to figure out at what exact point you’d made the wrong turn because…  
  
Alan Harper wasn’t just any lost soul looking for a place to live, and you didn’t choose him as your roommate and your runner just because he was nice and smart and had connections and was an unbelievable artist, you chose him because you knew he was—the forgotten son of James Harper, one of the main, colossal, pain-in-your-ass, eight-to-five superintendents of the subway system who liked to spend all of his free time instructing his minions to terrorize anyone who was near the trains and not getting on or off. You were a little younger than James, but not by much, and the two of you had been at war with one another for a long time; your troops against his, and yours were usually victorious because they had more time and weren’t limited to conventional weapons. So when you first saw Alan loitering around certain spots, you watched him to see if he was a mole, but when you finally spoke to him, and he asked you about your art and not accommodations, you thought he might malleable; there was something inside him that desperately needed to get out.  
  
So with Alan on your side, you had a trump card, a buffer, because no transit lackey was going to mace their boss’s kid, just wasn’t going to happen. But now your buffer had been ripped out from under you, exposing a very raw wound, and you were terrified because whatever action James took, you were fucked. If things went back to the way they were before but with a vengeance, all you could see was bloodshed. And if he decided to make it personal, to just go after you, well, that left an entire community unprotected.  
  
Zeek kept telling you, “One fucking step at a time, Stitch. One. Fucking. Step.”  
  
You wondered if you should start praying, or, for that matter, if you even remembered how.  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_don't know much about history  
don't know much biology  
don't know much about a science book  
don't know much about the French I took_  
  
To see your little brother step out of what might as well have been a Brian Kinney special, pressed and tucked, onto a New York City sidewalk took you back a bit; you were expecting a yellow taxi cab, not the Queen Mary; Jesus Christ, he didn’t even open his own door. “What in the fucking hell are you doing using a car service?” you asked him as he smoothed out the one tiny crinkle in his suit that looked like it cost more than your van.  
  
“I have an expense account,” he said defending himself.  
  
“Do you have an ass wiper on the payroll now, too?” you asked him.  
  
“I fired him,” Gabe told you, “He wasn’t attentive enough.” You laughed at him as he put his arm around you and hugged you, “You said you needed me here; you needed my help. I just wanted to get here as quick as I could; that’s all.”  
  
“Thanks,” you told him. “I appreciate it.”  
  
“So where’s the guy you told me about? What’s his name? Rip?”  
  
“His name is ‘Stitch?’” you told him, “And he’s across the street.” You pointed him out for Gabe.  
  
“Where?”  
  
“You see that guy staring at the trash can?”  
  
“With the hat and the sunglasses?”  
  
“Yeah. That’s him.” Gabe waved at him; you grabbed his hand and shot it back down, “Jesus, don’t do that; he’ll shit on himself. He thinks he’s invisible.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
……  
  
Once the two of you were inside police headquarters, the noise of the city silenced by the closing doors, Gabe asked, “We have an appointment, right?”  
  
“Basically.”  
  
And once you were in the elevator, just you and Gabe, he wanted clarification, “’Basically’ means ‘no,’ right?”  
  
“More or less.”  
  
Gabe used his reflection in the wall of the stainless steel elevator to tug on his suit, straighten his tie, do everything he does before he steps into a room, glancing at his fingernails to be sure they were perfectly clean, “This is why you need me? Because we’re doing this cold?”  
  
The elevator stopped on your floor, “Bingo, Babycakes. You’re on.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_pour some sugar on me_  
  
Your little brother made you so fucking proud that day because while you would’ve been nervous and damn near distracted by the chief’s fucking hot secretary whose blouse you could see straight down, your brother was none of those things, he was polished and polite and calm and un-fucking-flappable, “Good afternoon, Trinity.”  
  
_Trinity?_ Her name… You looked around… Where did he find her name? You’d ask him later.  
  
“Yes? May I help you?”  
  
“Hi. Gabe Zirrolli. I was hoping to have a few minutes with the chief.”  
  
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked him.  
  
He shook his head, “No, no I don’t. I just got into town, however, it’s critical that I speak to him. I’m more than happy to wait if you need to check with him, if you could just let him know that Gabe and Zeek Zirrolli are here, I’d truly appreciate it.”  
  
“You said ‘Gabe’ and ‘Zeek,’ right?” she asked.  
  
You popped out from behind your brother, “Yeah, that’s me. I’m Zeek.”  
  
“I’ll be right back," she said. Trinity walked away in that way that early-twenty-something girls do, such a spring in their step that just screams _you know you wanna fuck me when I get back to my desk!_  
  
“How’d you know her name?” you asked Gabe.  
  
He smiled and knocked on your skull with his fist, “You have to listen. When we got off the elevator, somebody paged a ‘Trinity’ and she’s the one that picked up the phone.”  
  
“Damn, you’re hard core.”  
  
“Shh, here she comes, and she’s smiling. We’re in.”  
  
Trinity stopped in front of the two of you, and you had to shove your hands in your pocket to keep from tweaking her nipples just to hear her squeaky voice, “Mr. Zirrolli and…Mr. Zirrolli…he said he’d be glad to see you.”  
  
“Thank you so much, Trinity,” Gabe said.  
  
“Right this way, gentlemen.”  
  
You whispered in Gabe’s ear as you walked, “I so don’t want to be gentle with her, man. I want to tear her up.”  
  
“Keep it in your pants, please,” he mumbled. “No refreshments until half time.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_backbeat the word was on the street_  
  
The chief stood as you and your brother walked into his office, smiling, walking around his desk to greet both of you--Gabe first, “Well, well, well, the great Gabe Zirrolli sets foot back in New York City, and I’m the first person he comes to see; I’m honored.”  
  
“Chief.”  
  
“Please sit down, both of you.” And Gabe did, but you stood for awhile, enjoying the view from his window, you could practically see the whole city, even Stitch pacing down below. Your brother and the chief exchanged pleasantries, the usual: _how’s the weather?, how’s the family, how’s business?_ , etc., and that’s why you felt like you needed Gabe to get you in the door because your idea of pleasantries was more along the line of: _how’s it hanging?, working hard or hardly working?, hey, you hittin’ that hot piece of ass in reception or is she fair game?_ , and you knew that wasn’t the right way to do things, plus you just didn’t look like Gabe did; you weren’t _presentable_. Gabe was one of those guys that would’ve been the perfect serial killer had he been so inclined because everything about him said, _Trust me. I know exactly what I’m doing, and, by the way, you’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met._  
  
You told Harper that once, the difference between you and your little brother, that Gabe had been born with a Charm School diploma sticking out of his ass, and she laughed and made you look at her because you were almost asleep—you’d fucked her at least three times; there was no need to add a notch to your belt every time you fucked a girl like Harper because your fucking belt would just fall off after the first week—and told you, “You’re very charming, Zeek Zirrolli, you just need to learn to be that way when you’re not aroused.” And that just confused the shit out of you because you were _always_ aroused—at least back then.  
  
But Gabe was moving the conversation along and it was time for you to pay attention because the chief was acknowledging that he knew why both of you were there, that he wished the circumstances were different, that he knew he had a fucking mess on his hands.  
  
“It’s worse than that,” Gabe said.  
  
“I figured,” he said, and you sat down then. “It was my guys that did this, not the Port Authority,” he admitted.  
  
“We know,” you said.  
  
The chief’s hands closed in front of from, “Doesn’t make that much of a difference, I suppose. Cops are cops.” And then the chief looked at you and not your brother, “Off the record, Monday morning’s headline, they’re pleading guilty. No trial. Twenty-five to life."  
  
“You sure about that?” you asked him.  
  
“I’m positive. Isn’t that why you’re here?”  
  
Gabe shifted in his seat and nodded his head at you like _go on_ , so you did, “Kind of, but not really. We need a favor, a big favor, and it would go a long way toward making things right on the streets again.”  
  
The chief leaned forward, a little bit of suspicion of his face, “What?”  
  
You cleared your throat, “The funeral’s tomorrow; Alan’s friends, his underground family, they want to come; all of them do—"  
  
“That’s not a problem,” the chief interrupted you.  
  
“No, I mean _all_ of them. The mothers with their children, the ones who’ve had a few run-ins with your boys, all of them, but they’re afraid if they come up, you’ll snatch them off the streets.”  
  
The chief’s eyes volleyed back and forth between you and your brother, “Anybody on the FBI’s most wanted list living down there?”  
  
“No. All they want is to be able to come up tomorrow, go to the funeral and go back by sundown without worrying. Can you do that?”  
  
“Yeah, I can do that.”  
  
“No police around, including Port Authority, no bullshit in the tunnels or on the tracks, coming or going?” you asked.  
  
“I’ll take care of it; I’ll put the word out. I can’t pull the cops off the street, but…hang on a second…,” he said, getting up from his desk and disappearing into a small room behind his office.  
  
You looked at Gabe, “How am I doing?”  
  
“So far, so good.”  
  
“Am I forgetting anything?” you asked him.  
  
“Don’t ask him to pull your finger, and, um, zip your fly.”  
  
“Shit,” and then you looked down and it was fine. “Fucker—"  
  
And then the chief was back with a small, dusty white box for you, “Here. This is a box of really old business cards I had from before I was promoted. Tell them to carry one of these tomorrow, all of them, even the children, and if they get stopped or hassled, it’s their _Get Out of Jail Free_ card, but only tomorrow and only till sundown.”  
  
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“But, I want something in return, Zeek,” the chief said as you and Gabe stood to conclude your meeting.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Tell Stitch that if he’ll stop vandalizing the trains, we’ll call off the dogs when he and his cohorts paint the tunnels. He’s costing the Port Authority thousands of taxpayer dollars to acid wash or replace those cars, and he knows it, and I’m sick of it. Tell him the tunnels he paints…well, I’ve seen pictures; we all have. He’s amazing.” And then the chief pointed to a stack of photos on his desk.  
  
“May I see those?” Gabe asked, and the chief obliged, handing them to him, and you looked over Gabe’s shoulder as he flipped through them. “Whoa, this is unbelievable. It’s like a concrete museum.”  
  
“It is,” the chief said, “It’s hard to be impressed and furious at the same time.”  
  
You took the photos out of Gabe’s hands and handed them back to the chief, telling him, “Try impressed and in mourning. Most of those were done by Alan. Look at the tag. Stitch doesn’t come up so much anymore.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”  
  
……  
  
The conversation was over; Gabe shook the chief’s hand, “Thanks for your time, for seeing us on such short notice.” You thanked him as well—for the courtesy and the cards.  
  
“I’ll be there tomorrow, guys. Several of my officers will be as well, in plain clothes. The two that did this, they don’t represent this department.”  
  
……  
  
As you walked out of the chief’s office and got back on the elevator, you were truly pre-occupied with talking to Stitch, with getting all of this worked out and over with, with getting Gabe back for making you fall for the oldest trick in the book; you were so lost in thought that you didn’t even hear Trinity’s squeaky little voice when she said good-bye...to you.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_and I guess I lost my way  
there were oh so many roads_  
  
That day you learned a little about what it felt like to be homeless in the city because never in your life had you felt so ungrounded and yet so burdened at the same time, never that lost, not even when you were a kid trying to predict what hotspot Brian would choose for his evening’s pleasure because you no longer had a goal anymore; you were empty, afraid to let anything in for fear of contamination. Because whatever was inside you, it had done something wrong, something inadvertently horrible, and you didn’t even know it, you just let it happen, and you left Father Dick’s church that day void of faith, hope, and direction. You no longer trusted yourself.  
  
Daniel knew you were gone because he saw you leave, saw you refuse Nate’s offer of a sandwich, and Daniel had listened quite stoically as you told him that you didn’t know where you were going, you just needed to not be there anymore, and to please, just leave you alone. So he did, and you left and began to walk, wondering all the while where your feet were taking you.  
  
True, you had the basics of life down pat and in spades, but somehow that began to mean less and less to you, began to anger you even, because why would you ever think that was the answer to any of this? What were you doing? What had you done? Everything that you believed in, that you relied on, it didn’t feel like it was you anymore, and if it wasn’t you, when had you made the wrong turn? And how were you supposed to get back there and go the other way if you had zero visibility in either direction?  
  
You thought about going to your old, old studio, Sam’s place, knowing you could jimmy the door and get in, but it didn’t feel like the right answer, so you just walked…thinking about your first days on those busy streets…how excited you were…and your last days…how sad you were to say good-bye to your friends, and at the end of a good hour, you were turning the corner and just a few feet away from Daniel’s place, and you still had a key, and right before you made the turn, you wondered if Brian was there, but he wasn’t; nobody was. The place was empty.  
  
Empty of everyone else, but maybe there was something in it for you? At that point, you felt like you had nowhere to go and nothing to lose.  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_for now there is no sound  
for we all live underground_  
  
It was less than twenty-four hours until your funeral, and if there were reporters in the AfterDeath (and why the hell not? the place seemed to have everything else) and one of them wanted to interview you for some bizarre reason, you would’ve told him that you were looking forward to it because the closer you got to the actual earthly send off, the more insane your non-life was becoming…  
  
First of all, Jack was drunk off his ass, and, by that point, everybody had a martini—even Sandra under the picnic table—but Jack was the only one getting smashed. It seemed that the more the lot of you drank, the worse Jack got, and he was finally reduced to half-sitting, half-lying on one of the long, C-shaped couches in ‘Babylon,’ sobbing while he watched the televisions. He didn’t like his entertainment for the evening.  
  
Your mother was standing next to you, seemed she’d wandered out from behind the bar, and she leaned on your arm and whispered in your ear, “Think I should give him a lap dance?”  
  
“Mom!” you said.  
  
“Well, I don’t how much longer I’m going to have Harper’s figure. I kind of want to torture the son of a bitch.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Plus, I really like this music.”  
  
“ _No._ I do not want to watch my mother give some asshole—or anybody for that matter—a lap dance, thank you very much.”  
  
“Would Harper do it?” she asked you.  
  
You lied and told her, “Absolutely not.”  
  
And then you covered your eyes as you mother went over to Chris and Cody and gave them one, frozen as they were. “What the fuck is she doing?” Leo asked you.  
  
“She thinks she’s giving them a lap dance.”  
  
“Is she going to strip?” he asked you. “Because _I’m_ taking cover under the picnic table if this place is about to turn into a titty bar.”  
  
“Hopefully she’ll lose that body and the self-confidence that comes with it any minute,” you told him.  
  
……  
  
What was playing out in front of you on the televisions was truly strange, some of it familiar to you, some of it not. Vic joked (though it wasn’t funny) as he tried to explain everything to you, “It’s sort of a sick, bastardized replication of _My Three Sons_ to the third power.”  
  
Jack was bawling because he was watching himself on the center television: as a young father yelling and slapping his son because he happened to toddle in front of the football game he was watching, to a man who took the stress of everyday life out on his wife and his children, to the man who’s teenage son was taller than he was but afraid to hit him back, to a man about to die and an encounter in a freezing cold garage with a son who had no warmth left for him at all.  
  
And then on another screen, you saw yourself with your dad, and though the abuse wasn’t really physical, it still hurt just as much to watch how he systematically eradicated you from the family, wanting nothing to do with you because he thought you were just like your mother—your mother who was at that moment giving a lap dance to a couple of zombies. (Let the record show, you really were nothing like your mother.) And you saw yourself with Harper trying to understand what it was about your mother that was so terrible, why it was such a sin to remind your father of her. “It’s complicated,” Harper would always say, “When he thinks about her, he feels like a failure.” Shortly before your death, you’d decided, though you never told anyone but Stitch, that your father was a failure at the only thing at ever really mattered…being your father.  
  
And on a third screen was a teenage Justin with his father and a lot of yelling and screaming and storming in and out and doors slamming and coming and going, and you stood there and watched that feed, stunned at how different your feed looked from his even though the two of you were the same age; you were so meek, never stood up for yourself like Justin did, and you were feeling bad about that, feeling like maybe you were a coward, and then you saw him get knocked down.  
  
The other six feeds on the periphery, they were brighter…  
  
One of Zeek helping you find Harper, over and over and over, so many different days…  
  
One of Brian with Justin throwing a tennis ball on a sunny day, a very short loop, playing over and over and over…  
  
One of Stitch taking you in and letting you stay with him, showing you around, explaining the rules you had to follow to live in his community…  
  
One of Daniel offering Justin studio space, nodding as Justin explained that Harper would have to come with him, feeling Daniel sleep better at night because he knew Justin was in there painting, his brush moving across the canvas…  
  
One of Leo, Nate, and Sarah at a reception at Brown Athletics for Brian, his award-winning commercial playing on several screens in the background…  
  
And the final feed, the sixth one, it was flickering in and out, but you could tell it was Jonathon and Brian somewhere in the city…  
  
“Get Sandra,” you told Leo, “Tell her to get out from under there. She should see this.”  
  
Leo was eventually successful, and Sandra wound up standing next to you, “What? What horrible thing is my son doing now?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” you told her, “But whatever it is, it’s a good thing; I can feel it.”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_and when I’m down on my knees,  
that’s when I’m the closest to Heaven_  
  
Even to this very day, it’s difficult to explain to anyone what it felt like to spend that afternoon with Brian. You can’t say that it was what you expected because you didn’t really know what to expect; it was basically just the most comfortable time you’d ever spent feeling uncomfortable. You were almost two hours into your lunch when you began to feel anxious; you were both finished eating, but the check hadn’t come and it just didn’t feel like lunch was over. Ever since Brian’s phone had rung earlier, you’d been expecting Justin to come through the front door any minute and you weren’t facing the door, so you’d be the last to know. But—one problem at a time… the check. You asked Brian, and he smiled and laughed and told you it wasn’t coming, and when you asked for clarification, he explained that it wasn’t coming because there wasn’t one, that the meal was comped, that, “Gabe Zirrolli is probably the only New Yorker who _left_ the city to make it big,” and that he, Brian Kinney, “Never dropped a dime in a New York restaurant since then because they’re probably hoping I’ll offer them their own restaurant, too.” Brian wasn’t boastful, just matter of fact.  
  
“So you really weren’t kidding about Justin and the free lunch thing?” you asked him.  
  
“Well, we go about it in different ways, I guess.”  
  
So, lunch wasn’t over…and Brian was still talking…  
  
“And speaking of that, of going about things in different ways, I’d like to know how you started dating a priest in the first place,” Brian asked you.  
  
“Why do you want to know?”  
  
“You really want me to answer that?” he followed up, all joking aside.  
  
“Uh...yes. I really want to know why you want to know,” you told him; it’s a reflex really, something they teach you over and over and over in med school: _When a patient asks about you, he’s really asking about himself._  
  
“Okay,” Brian began as he took a cigarette out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers. “Two reasons: because your relationship with him is strange and a bit risky—"  
  
“Like yours was with Justin.”  
  
“Fine. And because he’s madly in love with you, and I want to know if you’re going to break his heart.” And then he folded his hands in front of him on the table, the cigarette pointing right at you, and smiled.  
  
“You think he’s madly in love with me?” you asked.  
  
“He adores you; it’s blatantly obvious.”  
  
“To you or to everyone?”  
  
“To me and probably the trained homo- and possibly metro- sexual eye.”  
  
“He’s not out,” you told Brian.  
  
“I know that. That’s also blatantly obvious.”  
  
“The whole thing was an accident,” you confessed, your years of high-dollar, psychiatric training flying out the window and getting slammed by a tour bus.  
  
“How so?”  
  
You sighed, feeling weighted down all of a sudden; the reality of the situation not something you were interested in entertaining right then, but you felt compelled to do it anyway. Finding someone you could actually talk to about this whole subject (besides Daniel-because, let’s face it, you already knew what he was going to say before he said it) was, well, next to-- next to-- next to-- impossible. So you told Brian, “I needed help with a patient. I called every Catholic church in this city, and he was the only one who’d help me out, so he did. The case was over quickly because, quite frankly, Richard was more insane than my patient.” Brian laughed. “I’m not kidding,” you told him.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So, I took him out to dinner to thank him for helping me; it was completely benign, I swear to you, and we talked for almost five hours. It was one of the best dates I wasn’t really on.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“So we went to see a movie that we both wanted to see the next weekend because we were probably the only two people in the city interested in seeing it, and, of course, we had dinner afterwards, and…”  
  
“Another all nighter?”  
  
“Basically. And this just keeps going on for about two and half weeks, and I’m starting to want more, but I’m thinking this is idiotic; he’s a priest. What’s wrong with me? Blah, blah, blah.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“So I ask Daniel what he thinks, and he says I should tell him, so I try, but I can’t. I can’t do it when I’m looking at him. I can’t do it when I’m talking to him on the phone; so finally, I leave work early one day and I go to the church and go to Confession.”  
  
“No way.”  
  
“I had to. He has to be quiet. He has to listen, and I don’t have to look at him. So, I went in there and confessed. I said, you know, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I am a _completely_ revolting individual, and I want more from this relationship than I should, so please just condemn me to Hell and it’s been nice knowing you—"  
  
“So what did he say?”  
  
You smiled as you remembered it, “He said, ‘Then ‘revolting’ must be in this season.”  
  
“ _He_ made a fashion joke?” Brian asked.  
  
“I’m telling you, the man’s a complete enigma.”  
  
“Did you know that he was gay?” Brian wanted to know.  
  
“God, no. He’s a priest. I never asked him who he’d be fucking if he could fuck somebody. That’s not something you ask a priest.”  
  
“I would,” Brian said.  
  
“Well, I didn’t.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, I said, ‘What?’ And he said, ‘Looks like we’re going to Hell together.’”  
  
“And had he ever been to 'Hell' before?” Brian wanted to know.  
  
You hung your head, “No, but he has now. Trust me.”  
  
“Did he like it?”  
  
“Like it? He wants to remodel. Hell, he’s probably out buying flame-retardant sheets as we speak.”  
  
“Holy shit...no pun intended."  
  
“Exactly. So anytime you think you’ve done something horrible, you just think about me and what I’ve done.”  
  
“You’re the snake in the garden of Eden.”  
  
“That’s me--eight-point-nine inches of sin for the taking.”  
  
“An honest man who doesn’t round up—very rare in this day and age.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m fucking a priest,” you said, “I figure I better not take my chances with anything else.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Well, he does love you,” Brian said after a minute or so.  
  
“You said, ‘He _adores_ me,’” you corrected him.  
  
“Yeah, but adoration marinated at such a high temperature cooks nicely; makes something quite tasty when everything’s said and done.”  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, “Is that right?”  
  
“I’m an expert on the subject; trust me,” he reassured you.  
  
……  
  
“Yeah, but this one started cooking really late,” you pointed out.  
  
“That’s okay; it just won’t take him as long to be well done.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You waited a long time, didn’t you, Brian?”  
  
……  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, I did…but it was worth it.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_the time is precious I know_  
  
Which brought you to the second problem…  
  
“I keep thinking that Justin’s going to walk in any minute. Don’t you?” you asked Brian, wondering why he wasn’t getting up to go smoke the cigarette he was playing with.  
  
“He might,” Brian conceded, glancing at his watch.  
  
“But you don’t think so?” you asked. It was weird, how vague he seemed; you hadn’t known him very long, but ‘vague’ wasn’t a word you’d use to describe him.  
  
It took him a while to answer you, as if he was considering each word very carefully, “I don’t spend a lot of time trying to predict what he’s going to do.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You thought about that for a minute…  
  
“Because he’s a boomerang; because he always comes back? Is that what you mean?”  
  
Brian shrugged, “Sort of. If he’s not here right now…well, let’s just say it’s his call where he wants to be.”  
  
……  
  
The whole situation was becoming unnerving for some reason. The man sitting in front of you was wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, successful to a fault, and not paying you a dime, and yet you felt like you weren’t giving him his money’s worth, like you were wasting his time. You knew that people paid a pretty penny to have even fifteen minutes of Brian’s undivided attention and you’d had it for two hours and counting. He wasn’t your patient; you weren’t his client, but for some reason, you felt this weight of self-imposed obligation sitting on you like an elephant.  
  
And then there was the cigarette he was fondling; it was bothering you, too. So you decided to tell him, to quit fucking around and just lay all your cards on the table,  
  
“Brian, I want to talk to you about what happened to you last night and today and about Justin.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
That seemed _way_ too easy, so you asked, “Maybe you’d like to go smoke that cigarette first?”  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“The last time I smoked a cigarette, I passed out, right?”  
  
You laughed, “That’s not why you passed out.”  
  
“I know; I was just fucking with you. You’re worried about the check, about Justin walking in here, about whether or not I need to smoke, and I just want you, Justin, hell, anybody at this point, to tell me what the fuck is happening to me.”  
  
Well, the cards were certainly on the table.  
  
……  
  
“Fair enough,” you began. “What do you think is happening to you?”  
  
He gave you a look you hadn’t seen before, one you didn’t particularly appreciate, “Oh, we’re going to play this game now?”  
  
“No, it’s not a game at all. I really need to know what you think.”  
  
He pulled a small white napkin in front of him and began to unravel the cigarette, letting the tobacco pour out, “I think I’m losing my mind.”  
  
“That’s understandable.”  
  
“Am I?” he asked, his eyes on the mountain he was making, where they’d stay for quite a while.  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“You have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—"  
  
“I know that; I have internet access.”  
  
“As does Justin.”  
  
“He doesn’t really remember anything,” Brian said.  
  
“His is different from yours.”  
  
He glanced up at you very quickly, very briefly, before his eyes returned to the mess he was making, “Why?”  
  
“Yours is directly linked to the incident itself; his is a result of the aftermath.”  
  
……  
  
He balled the napkin up with the destroyed cigarette inside it and threw it to the far end of the table and then looked at you again, “I took care of him afterwards. I _am_ his aftermath.”  
  
……  
  
You took a deep breath, “This is not going to be easy to talk about, Brian. It’s going to make you really angry and upset, but it’s supposed to make you feel that way. If it didn’t, there would _really_ be something wrong with you.”  
  
……  
  
“I’m extremely pissed right now,” he told you.  
  
“I know you are, but I promise you that there’s no threat here. And we can stop whenever you want. But, Brian—" And then you stopped because he wasn’t looking at you again. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“I need some water.”  
  
“I’ll get it.”  
  
“He saw me. He’s coming.”  
  
And as the waiter brought a new pitcher of water, you watched as Brian refilled his glass, and waited for him to look at you again, “Okay, but what you were saying, that you were Justin’s aftermath; that’s why we have to talk about this.” Brian just looked at you as if he wanted to say something, but he just couldn’t, so you continued, “Justin needs help, Brian. He’s struggling with this, and he won’t allow himself to heal as long as you’re still unable to process this. He puts you first.”  
  
“I’ll make him get help,” Brian decreed as if that was the answer you were looking for.  
  
“It won’t matter. He loves you and to get past this and leave you behind would be a betrayal. He won’t do it.”  
  
And that was not something Brian wanted to hear, almost spitting out his response, “ _That_ is bullshit.”  
  
“It’s _The Gift of the Magi_ , Brian.” And when he gave you a blank look, you explained, “O. Henry? The timeless tale-"  
  
“I know what it is, don’t insult me.”  
  
“Withdrawn.”  
  
……  
  
He removed yet another cigarette and began twirling it again, staring at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of you…friend or foe? Patients do that to you all the time when you hit a nerve, so you were okay with that, leaning back and letting him absorb what you’d said. Finally, Brian spoke, “Don’t you have anything else to add or is that it?”  
  
“You’re pissed at me; I don’t think you care what I have to say right now,” you told him.  
  
“True.”  
  
“Why are you pissed?”  
  
Another fifteen seconds passed…  
  
“You don’t know Justin,” he said, every word heavy and deliberate.  
  
“You’re right; I don’t. He lived here for six years; I’ve known him for over four; I consider him a good friend of mine, and I’ve only known about the most significant event in his entire life for less than twenty-four hours.” Brian watched you carefully as you spoke, like maybe you were lying to him. “You don’t believe me?”  
  
“I believe you; I guess, I just never thought—"  
  
“ _That’s_ how hard this is for him, Brian.”  
  
Brian shook his head as if he was disgusted with himself, “He can’t even talk to me.”  
  
“He’s afraid,” you said. “Every step he takes makes him feel like he’s falling off a cliff.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“He’s already fallen,” Brian said, looking worn down from the realization, pressed by the urgency, “He’s barely hanging on. Tell me what to do, tell me how to help him.”  
  
“We have to help you first.”  
  
*********************  
**ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
  
  
_he watches his bridges burn  
from the point of no return_  
  
And that was when it happened; that was the beginning of the end. The center screen went blank, the eight different feeds merged and all became Jon and Brian talking at the restaurant. Your mother became your mother again, and the AfterDeath looked like its namesake, like the way a club looks when you turn the lights on at four a.m. and there’s confetti and glitter everywhere, and you really just want to take a shower. And when the central feed came back on, it wasn’t anything anyone was expecting at all.  
  
It was daybreak in a Pittsburgh courthouse and Meredith Hobbs was walking through hollow sounding halls, standing in line, and when she got to the front, “I need to have this cancelled, please.”  
  
“What’s your reason?” the deputy asked as he opened the document he was handed.  
  
“I’m afraid Mr. Bell’s been rung for the last time. He died last night in Kansas in a meth lab explosion, so I don’t think I need this anymore.”  
  
“Cody Bell,” the deputy said like he was trying the name on for size, “May you rest in peace. We’ll take care of this for you…Ms. Hobbs.”  
  
“Thank you,” she said as she walked away. “Free at last.”  
  
……  
  
And with that, so were Chris and Cody, and damn if they weren’t as stunned as the rest of you.  
  
The restraining order was lifted. There was nothing holding anyone back.  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_tell him, tell him, tell him right now_  
  
Amelia wanted nothing from you on the cab ride back to the church but a solemn promise that she would not have to take a nap, and she planned to procure this promise from you by standing in your lap and pressing her finger to your lips and her forehead to yours and telling you, “You hafta, hafta promise no nap, Mommy; you hafta.”  
  
“I told you, ‘Melia, you don’t have to take a nap unless you fall asleep.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m not gonna fall ‘sleep ‘cause I’m not so tired.” And then she yawned. Sarah smiled at you and then turned her head toward the window so Amelia wouldn’t see her laughing. “’Cause I wanna show Brime Kinney my bery pretty dress,” she’d say every few minutes.  
  
“Don’t you want to show Daddy your very pretty dress?” you asked her. “I’ll bet he’d really like to see it, too.”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, sitting down between you and Sarah, “I’ll show Daddy first and then I’ll show Brime Kinney for a bery long time.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
……  
  
You’d called Sam when the three of you got in the cab, and he was waiting for you on the curb outside the church when you pulled up with twelve million shopping bags and Amelia sound asleep in your arms. “Have fun?” he asked, and you laughed and Sarah said, “No comment,” and relieved you of most of your stuff, leaving you alone with your tiny family and disappearing into the church to rehearse with Nate.  
  
“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “You’re being weird,” he said as he took Amelia from you and let her sleep on his shoulder for awhile.  
  
“Your daughter is a smooth criminal.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
He was going to have a complete hissy fit when you told him, so you figured you might as well tell when while he was holding your sleeping child on a public sidewalk because then he wouldn’t scream at you, “I lost Amelia in Macy’s; Security found her in the children’s department shoplifting jewelry. They got her on tape and everything. It was the most terrifying thirty minutes of my life, and don’t go off on me about it or I’ll kick you in the nuts.”  
  
“Oh, god, babe. Whoa. Silence the violence.”  
  
He didn’t seem angry, but then again, Sam was a purebred WASP, so his anger was automatically enrolled in a five year deferment program that came with him when he was born, “She thinks she’s a grown up, Sam. We screwed up somewhere. She’s not even three, and I swear to god, if we told her she needed to get a full time job to support us, she’d be working at Merrill Lynch tomorrow.”  
  
“Yuck. Why does she have to work at Merrill Lynch?”  
  
“Sam, you know what I mean.”  
  
“But I like her the way she is,” Sam said, holding her a little tighter, “I think she’s perfect.”  
  
“Well, I’ll tell you what, see if you still feel that way in six weeks when we can’t find her, and we call the cops and put out an Amber Alert, and then we find out she’s working at Brime Kinney, Inc.”  
  
“His company is called _Kinnetik,”_ he corrected you.  
  
And then you realized the entire problem; it came to you clear as day: Amelia was Sam, single-minded, self-assured, unstoppable. You were arguing, trying to _reason_ with a man who _truly_ believed that the first line in _Green Eggs and Ham_ was written expressly for him, so you threw in the towel, “Okay, just forget it. If you’re happy with raising a thirty-year-old who still has to poop in a practice potty, then I guess I am, too.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes at you as he leaned in to give you a kiss, “Now you’re just trying to make her sound like one of those functionally retarded people.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” you told him, “She loves her Daddy.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_the highway’s jammed with broken heroes_  
  
As you walked into the church with Sam and then down the hallway to find Daniel and Richard, you told him that Justin had left you a message hours ago that you hadn’t even heard until the three of you were done with lunch. “He said he wanted to talk to me.” You assumed he was at the church, that everyone was, but Sam shook his head. “No, you missed the silent movie this morning. We’ve had a bit of a kerfluffle.”  
  
“Please don’t talk nonsense right now,” you scolded him. "The last time you used that word it meant 'Fraggle fart.'"  
  
He corrected himself in his highbrow tone of voice that he always uses when imitating his mother, “Fine, we’ve had a ‘situation.’”  
  
“ _Sam.”_  
  
He relented, spitting out the words like they were burning his tongue, “Justin and Brian had a fight. I don’t know the details. Brian left with Jon; I haven’t seen him since. Justin was here for a while doing something for Daniel or for Alan or something, and then he left. He was upset when he left; Daniel’s upset. Everybody is upset.”  
  
“Upset about what?”  
  
“I do not know, and I did not ask.”  
  
……  
  
You and Sam kept walking, found everybody in the church’s kitchen and checked in with Richard and Daniel and Nate regarding the funeral plans, and, on the surface, everything seemed upbeat and okay, and after a few minutes you asked, “Where’s Justin?” just to see what kind of answer you’d get. And Daniel looked at you and said, “Not here,” and the room got quiet, and had there been a live audience and a spotlight, you would’ve thought you were suddenly the hostess of the 2011 _American Midol_ semifinals…  
  
“Well, where’d he go?” you asked.  
  
“I think he went for a walk,” Daniel said, his head down that time.  
  
“By himself?” you asked.  
  
“By himself,” Richard confirmed. “He didn’t want anyone to go with him.”  
  
“What’s going on?” you asked the lot of them, and Nate got up immediately, “Excuse me, I’ll leave you guys alone. Don’t really think this concerns me.” He shirked by you as if he was afraid you were going to reach out and throw him back in the stew.  
  
“Is someone going to answer me?” you asked Daniel and/or Richard, and Richard spoke up, which, of course, meant that whatever happened had nothing to do with him, “Well, we’ve just had a rather—“  
  
“Richard, can you excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Daniel in private.”  
  
He got up and apologized to Daniel before leaving the room; Sam left right behind him, had he not been carrying Amelia, he probably would’ve been running.  
  
……  
  
You sat down next to Daniel by the huge stainless steel island in the middle of the kitchen and asked him again, “What’s going on?”  
  
……  
  
When Daniel finally spoke, it was as if every word was killing him, “Under the circumstances, I think it’s better if I don’t go into it too much. It’s really complicated.”  
  
He’d looked like shit when you’d seen him that morning, and though he looked a little better now, his demeanor was almost painful, like nothing you’d ever seen, and it was really, really bothering you, so you reached out and put your hand over his and said, “Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but, number one, you’re really freaking me out because you are _never_ like this, and Daniel—“ and then you took a deep breath because you were starting to get upset, and you really didn’t feel like doing that at the moment.  
  
“Don’t, Harper. It’s okay.”  
  
“Look, you have done _so_ much for me, for Sam, for Amelia…for Alan, so it’s not okay for me to see you like this. It’s really not. And now Justin’s leaving me messages that he really needs to talk to me, and he sounds all weird, and he was really strange this morning. What the fuck, Daniel?”  
  
Daniel seemed relieved, “So you’re the one he called. Okay, that makes sense.”  
  
“I’m glad it makes sense to somebody.”  
  
“Call him back. He really needs to talk to you. The rest will sort itself out.”  
  
“He called me hours ago; I was in fucking Macy’s. Where is he? Is he okay?”  
  
Daniel stood up, pushed his chair in, and hugged you, “Call him and find out, okay?”  
  
“Okay, I’ll call him. Are you okay, Daniel? Because you don’t look okay.”  
  
“I’ll be all right; don’t worry about me.”  
……  
  
_Jesus Christ,_ you thought, _Men._  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_you go back, Jack,  
do it again_  
  
_an hour before_  
  
Upon your arrival at Daniel’s, your footsteps into his pristine foyer, it was quiet as a tomb, the way it always was on the days you came to paint there, the days when Harper probably wasn’t coming because Amelia was finally sitting up or crawling or taking her first steps, and it saddened you immediately because you missed coming there every day, wondering what you’d accomplish, wondering if Harper would stop by for lunch and stay to work for during Amelia’s nap or not. But when you opened the door and saw the new addition to the room…you turned around…walking quickly down the hall to Daniel’s room to see it’s brand new twin and then back again to what was supposed to feel at least a little bit like your space and slammed the fucking door as hard as you could.  
  
The tea party in Amelia’s little kitchen lost its teapot; it tipped over, fell off the table and rolled against the wall, an unceremonious accident that was no match for the fury bouncing around inside you.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_I need somewhere to begin_  
  
That Thursday in April would prove to be one of the single, most pivotal days in your entire life, but the reason for that wouldn’t be so singular…  
  
Perhaps it was some sort of cosmic irony that had been hatched a long, long time ago, perhaps the first morning you woke up next to Justin, following you in your disparaged Jeep as it sped to St. James’s Academy, watching you as you informed him quite publicly in front of his private school that he’d see you in his dreams because from that moment on, it had been exactly the opposite—it was _your_ dreams that had been hijacked by images of you fucking him from behind while helping him with his Calculus homework. And it was your dreams that became infected with a virus after Justin was so brutally attacked, a virus that bred violence and rage and helplessness every time you fell asleep.  
  
But you weren’t dreaming anymore.  
  
Your nightmares had become reality, and your reality had landed you across from a guy who smiled a lot, who could be Justin at forty since who the fuck knew where your glasses were, who seemed genuinely interested in helping you, and for the first time in your life you felt a sense of incremental relief that didn’t come with a side of ejaculate. It was just plain old relief and a strange sense of benevolence for this man you’d just met, a guy who didn’t really know you and thus far, in all honesty, had only seen you at your worst…  
  
……  
  
When a client comes into your office with a product they can’t sell and a bottom line that’s shrinking fast, it usually takes you about twenty minutes to decide on the correct course of action, maybe forty-five minutes to present it, and then you generally give them very little time to decide because there’s never any need to agonize over those decisions. You’re either ready to make a change and make some money or you’re not. And that’s how you felt with Jon that day. He was giving you a choice: ready or not?  
  
“Okay. I’m ready,” you said.  
  
You had to be; there was way too much at stake.  
  
……  
  
Jonathon began by asking you if you knew why you fainted, telling you that it was the same thing that caused your ‘break’ the night before, but you didn’t know. You tried, but you couldn’t remember. “Just tell me,” you said. “What did I do?”  
  
“You didn’t ‘do’ anything. You saw the stain on the sidewalk, where Alan-"  
  
_Oh fuck._  
  
Your lunch came up in the back of your throat, acidic…  
  
“You okay?” he asked you, leaning across the table.  
  
“Feel sick.”  
  
And dizzy.  
  
“You’re white as a sheet, Brian.”  
  
And hot.  
  
You got up and started walking toward the restroom, propelling yourself as fast as you could into the first stall where you promptly threw up your free lunch. When it was over, your eyes were wet like they’d tried to purge themselves, too, and you wiped them on your sleeve as you head hung over the toilet bowl. And when you tried to get up, when it was all over, you found that you couldn’t, that Jon was standing over you, “Don’t get up, Brian. No need. Just stay there, okay?”  
  
“Fuck,” you said as you spat into the toilet bowl, “Christ, he’s right; I should go home.” You could feel Jon’s hand on your shoulder pulling double duty—trying to comfort you and make sure you didn’t stand up at the same time.  
  
“Mr. Kinney? Are you all right?” A voice from the doorway, your waiter.  
  
“He’s fine,” Jon told him stepping out of the stall you were still sprawled in, “He’s just not feeling well.”  
  
“Something he ate?” the waiter asked.  
  
“No, no. He’s been under the weather.”  
  
“Does he need a doctor?” he asked.  
  
“I am a doctor,” Jon said. “He’s okay.”  
  
And then the waiter was obviously speaking to you or rather the cracked door of your stall, “We’re closed until four p.m., Mr. Kinney. That’s when we re-open for dinner. No one will come in or out.”  
  
You glanced at your watch: _Two thirty-seven._ “Thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure, Mr. Kinney. Anything you need, just let us know.”  
  
After the waiter had gone and the door had shut, Jon handed you a cold paper towel which felt like heaven on your face, “You’re like Jesus to these people or something.”  
  
“I guess so.”  
  
……  
  
So Jonathon sat outside the stall while you leaned against the inside wall and the two of you began again, “Brian, I think you should take the lead. Every time I try you pass out or hurl. Why don’t you start?”  
  
Like you knew where to start. You told him as much. He told you to try, and you did, but nothing would come out, besides you were too preoccupied by your heartbeat thumping like a bass drum in your head. “I can’t,” you told him. “I really can’t.”  
  
“Okay. That’s all right. You’ve never talked with anyone about this have you?”  
  
“No, just Justin, kind of.”  
  
“Okay, let’s just forget that for now. Tell me what it’s been like since Justin came back. Talk to me about that.”  
  
*********************

** **

**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_I begin to think I understand_  
  
Better you thought to stay in the present and maybe work your way back…  
  
“There’s no real way to describe it, waking up in the morning or the middle of the night, which is even better, really, and realizing he’s next to me,” Brian said, looking up at the ceiling, “I mean, I missed the fuck out of him; I’d always hoped he’d come back but I never really knew, and the years go by, and pretty soon you just start thinking that he probably won’t, you know?”  
  
You unwrapped a new roll of toilet paper and handed it to him; it was really murder for him to talk about this, “No, I don’t know,” you said. “He’s devoted to you; I guess I don’t understand that.”  
  
“It’s hard to explain. When he left, I didn’t want to put any conditions--, didn’t want him to feel obligated, I guess.”  
  
“Why did he leave?”  
  
“To become an artist,” Brian said, like maybe you were stupid or something.  
  
“He couldn’t paint in Pennsylvania or wherever you live?”  
  
“Actually, looking back on it, I don’t think he could.”  
  
“Help me understand that.”  
  
As Brian spoke, you got the impression that it was just beginning to make sense to him as he was explaining it to you, “Ever since he came back, he hasn’t been able to paint. He’s really frustrated about it…. We’ve talked about it. I thought that maybe it was because it’s just me and him in our huge house, and that he’s lonely…. He’s used to sharing his studio with Harper, used to having company.”  
  
“But you don’t think that’s it?”  
  
“I wish that was it,” he said, the reality of it settling on his face, “But that’s not it. He can’t paint because he’s blocked, and he’s blocked because of me.”  
  
“You don’t think that’s a bit of a leap?” you asked him.  
  
“No, it’s true. That’s why he’s screaming at me about his artwork and throwing shit at me and painting over some of his best work—"  
  
“Painting over what?” you asked.  
  
“I bought one of his paintings, an untitled mural from one of his first shows."  
  
“I know which painting it is. Daniel almost bought it; you beat him to it.”  
  
“Well, Justin didn’t know that I bought it and when he got home and saw it hanging over the desk in my study, he went ballistic.”  
  
“He told us last night that he was angry because he thought his work was selling like crazy, and then he found out that you were one of the major buyers the entire time.”  
  
“Well, that might be what he told you, but that’s not why he’s pissed. You’re not a very perceptive shrink if you bought that crap.”  
  
“Fair enough. He’s pissed because of that particular painting? Why?”  
  
“I don’t know.” (He was lying.) “It’s calm and violent all at the same time and it’s currently covered with some tacky gray primer and a tarp in his studio. I keep expecting to come home from work one day and find him burning it in the backyard, only that’ll never happen because there are gnomes in the backyard, so he’ll probably burn the damn thing in the front yard.”  
  
“Why do you care about this painting?”  
  
“I bought the fucking thing.”  
  
“Brian, you have more money than you know what to do with.”  
  
“That painting belongs to me.”  
  
“Because you bought it?”  
  
“Because I’m _in_ it,” he said, clearly angry…at somebody or something.  
  
“I’ve seen that painting, Brian. It’s completely abstract; there’s nobody in it.”  
  
“That’s because _you_ don’t know what you’re looking at.”  
  
……  
  
The anger was back.  
  
……  
  
You let it go; he was in no shape to go any further down that road.  
  
……  
  
“Okay,” you said by way of redirection, “So Justin’s come back of his own free will; he can’t paint; he’s blocked; he’s angry and destroying things he painted while he was here. What else?”  
  
“He’s got this job at PIFA, at the art school; he’s supposed to teach a seminar or something, and the days we ride in together, he follows me, the days he’s supposed to be there working, I see him other places. He lies to me. He’s got zero interest in that class; I don’t even think he’s really working there.”  
  
“Have you told him that you’ve seen him other places?”  
  
Brian shook his head, “No, he’ll tell me when he’s ready.”  
  
“You give him a remarkable amount of latitude, Brian.”  
  
“It’s gone both ways over the years, trust me.”  
  
“Okay, what else?”  
  
Brian thought about it for a moment, “He hates my car and my kitchen.”  
  
“Your car and your kitchen?”  
  
“Yeah, the refrigerator sent him an email and that was the straw that fucked the camel up the ass, if you know what I mean.”  
  
You honestly had no idea what that meant, but whatever. “What _does_ he like, Brian?”  
  
“Fucking and the wine cellar.”  
  
You weren’t sure if you heard him right, “Fucking _in_ the wine cellar?”  
  
“Sometimes, but we’ll probably do more of that in the summer. In the winter, we fuck in the sauna.”  
  
“Well, naturally.”  
  
……  
  
And then Brian told you he was tired of sitting on the floor, that he wanted to get up and go back to the table.  
  
“Can you stand up without falling down?” you asked him.  
  
“I think so.”  
  
You stood next to him as he washed his hands and splashed water on his face and then followed him back to the table. Once the two of you sat down, a waiter was immediately there, ready to serve, “Are you okay, Mr. Kinney? Do you need anything?”  
  
“Ginger ale,” he said. “On the rocks.”  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
  
  
_what’s the matter with the clothes I’m wearing?_  
  
The other reason for Gabe’s prompt arrival in the city was the unspoken one: someone had to take you shopping to get a suit. It could’ve been Kinney if Kinney hadn’t stepped in a pile of crazy the night before, and you didn’t feel comfortable asking anyone else, and Gabe knew that without you even having to tell him. You were going to hate every minute of it because the only places Gabe liked to shop catered to men who only ate celery and splooge, not to men who had _real_ bodies with actual tone and muscle and macho-ness.  
  
“ _Machismo,”_ Gabe said, when you told him that in the cab.  
  
“I thought that was one of those coffee drinks you like.”  
  
“That’s a _macchiato.”_  
  
Your head was beginning to hurt, “But, wait, I thought that was one of those people who likes getting their ass whipped and shit.”  
  
“That’s a _masochist,”_ Gabe said.  
  
“Well, fuck me,” you said, “I thought _that_ was what chicks used when they got that ‘not so fresh’ feeling.”  
  
And then your cab driver thought he’d get jump into the conversation with an accent thicker than Emmett’s designer knee-pads, “Dat’s _Massengill’s_ , Misser Malaprop!”  
  
And that just pissed you the fuck off, “Yo, Green Card, welcome to A-mer-i-ca. We speak _English._ ”  
  
(“That _was_ English,” Gabe whispered to you, but you ignored him.)  
  
“Jou coulda fooled me.”  
  
Gabe just shook his head at you, “You know, sometimes you should just quit when you’re ahead, you know that?”  
  
“I’m not gonna quit until someone’s giving me head,” you told him.  
  
“Well, don’ looka me,” the cabbie quipped.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Ricky Ricardo.”

  
*********************

**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_see if you can somehow factor in_  
  
Back at your table in the restaurant, your waiter brought you ginger ale, too; maybe you looked like you needed it or something. While you’d been talking to Brian in the restaurant, as the conversation progressed, there was something going on under the surface that you were determined to tease out; there was more to this, another piece to the puzzle…  
  
“Brian, without going into too much detail, I just want to confirm a few things.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Justin went to high school, graduated, did he go to college?”  
  
“He took some classes, art classes, never graduated. Went to Hollywood for a while; his work was going to be made into a movie.”  
  
This was news to you, “What work?”  
  
“A comic book.”  
  
“Didn’t know he did that kind of work. What was it?”  
  
“I don’t want to tell you.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because you’re going to have a fucking field day with it.”  
  
“Look, I don’t try to do your job; don’t try to do mine,” you told him.  
  
“Fine, it was a gay comic book based on a super hero named ‘Rage’ which was me.”  
  
You sat back in your seat, _“Whoa.”_  
  
“See, I told you.”  
  
“The movie didn’t get made?” (It couldn’t have, you thought, because you and Daniel would’ve been at that theater every night for a least two weeks just to argue about symbolism, subtext, and spandex and where exactly the thrice should meet.)  
  
“No. It tanked.”  
  
It was at that point that you realized the scope of what you were dealing with and the challenge of keeping all of it front and center, so you began to unroll an unused cloth napkin that you’d pushed to the end of the table and setting the knife, spoon, and fork in front of you. Brian asked what you were doing, and you said, “Placeholders. You’ll see. So Justin came back?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You say that like you were surprised,” you told him.  
  
“I was. I figured he’d get a taste of Hollywood, of LA, and forget all about Pittsburgh.”  
  
“And all about you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That seems to be a recurrent theme in your life. The storyline of the comic book, was it--?”  
  
“Autobiographical?” Brian asked, finishing your sentence.  
  
“For Justin?”  
  
Brian sighed, “Yeah.”  
  
“And it tanked?”  
  
“Hook, line, and sinker,” Brian said. He didn’t seem surprised, which seemed a little strange to you, but then again maybe not, there was something about that that you wanted to come back to so you picked up the fork and placed it in front of you, horizontally, between you and Brian. “What’s that for?” he asked.  
  
“Something I want to come back to. How was Justin when he came back? Disappointed?”  
  
Brian seemed suspicious of your psycho-cutlery but answered you anyway, “Yeah. He tried to act like he didn’t take it personally, but he did.”  
  
“I can imagine. He was what? Twenty?”  
  
“Yeah, twenty.”  
  
“So, this comic is autobiographical for _Justin_ , but the central character is _you_ as ‘Rage’ and—"  
  
Brian interrupted you, “He didn’t write it; he just illustrated it.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“A friend of mine wrote it.”  
  
“A friend of yours or a friend of yours and Justin’s?” you asked.  
  
“Well, both of us at that point,” Brian conceded.  
  
“Your friend went to LA as well?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?” you asked.  
  
“He wasn’t asked to go,” Brian said. “They wanted Justin.”  
  
You moved the spoon next to the fork, “And how long did this project go on?”  
  
“Couple years.”  
  
You wanted to get your hands on this comic book yesterday, but you weren’t exactly a magician so, “Okay, so Justin only illustrates it; he stays once removed?”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”  
  
“Was he afraid to get any closer, even then?”  
  
Brian dodged you, defending Justin, “He’s an artist, not a writer.”  
  
……  
  
You were learning on your feet and very quickly with both Brian and Justin and the quickest way to end a conversation with either of them was to probe the motivations or intentions of the other, and while you found this intriguing, you were smart enough to back off of a land mine lest you find yourself ejected from the property, so you decided to slow down a little, to lull the pace of the conversation a little and make it less of a firing squad and more of a fact-finding mission, “Right, I see your point. Your friend, what’s his name?”  
  
“Michael.”  
  
“Right, Michael. He writes the script, so to speak, and then Justin fills in the illustrations; am I correct?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brian said, like he was hoping you’d just buy that answer and move on.  
  
“So, Justin didn’t have any real input into the story?”  
  
……  
  
Brian looked around the restaurant as if he’d never seen it before, and finally admitted, “Well, he had some input, I guess.”  
  
“Okay, but just a little, for artistic reasons?”  
  
“Well, no. I mean, he wasn’t going to just illustrate something he didn’t like.”  
  
“Makes sense. Every artist has their own sense of artistic integrity. I can understand that,” you told him. Brian smiled at you. “Okay, so your friend would write the issue and then bring it to Justin, and he’d illustrate it? Is that how it worked?”  
  
Brian shook his head, “Yeah…sort of. Not really. It was collaborative. They usually worked together, especially in the beginning.”  
  
“Justin liked that? The collaboration?”  
  
Brian let a breath of laughter escape, “Yeah, he liked it all right. He liked it a lot.”  
  
“Why are you smiling?” you asked him.  
  
He did it again; the huff of laughter through his nose, “He was so young, everything made him either unbelievably happy or totally fucking miserable. There wasn’t much in between.”  
  
“Did that include you?” you asked him.  
  
Brian’s smile became more of a sneer, “You could say that.”  
  
……  
  
You moved back to the comic book, “So if the comic book is more or less about Justin and you, and Justin has significant input into the storyline, and he’s the illustrator and the one who’s invited to LA to make the movie, what exactly _was_ Michael’s role in all of this?”  
  
……  
  
Brian’s eyes narrowed before he could stop them, “Is that some sort of a trick question or something?”  
  
You answered him honestly, “Absolutely not.”  
  
……  
  
Brian was clearly exasperated with you or perhaps the subject matter at this point, answering you with an _I’ve had quite enough of this_ tone to his voice, “Fuck, I don’t know, channeling?”  
  
_Honest answer,_ you thought. You were impressed. “Channeling what?”  
  
If the table between you and Brian weren’t bolted to the floor, Brian would’ve successfully pinned you with it at that moment, leaning back in the booth like he really needed to get the hell away from you, but was unable to get up, “What the fuck are you getting at? Just fucking say it because now you’re just pissing me the fuck off.”  
  
So you told him because like Richard always says when he’s under the covers, ‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ “Well, what I’m getting at is that it’s an awful lot of work to produce an entire comic book—that someone else ‘writes’ for you--and eventually end up all the way across the country making a movie about your relationship when you could just sit down and talk to the man you love about how you feel.” Brian stared at you and said nothing, just stared as if you’d suddenly sprouted another head. “Justin didn’t have to draw you and your rage; he could’ve talked to you about it, tried to help you work through it perhaps?”  
  
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s not—that wasn’t the way we did things.”  
  
“So he goes all the way to LA to do this and it bombs, and he comes back to you, and what happens?”  
  
“We’re totally out of sync.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“He needed things from me that I wouldn’t give him.”  
  
“Like what?” (The firing squad was front and center again. You were beginning to think he preferred it.)  
  
“Like everything.”  
  
“Why didn’t you give him what him what he wanted?” you asked.  
  
“I don’t even fucking know,” His defensiveness was back, “I wanted to; I could see what he wanted, but it was like I just couldn’t do it, felt like I was fucking paralyzed.” He stopped, and you thought he was finished but he wasn’t, “Sometimes I would stare at myself in the mirror, and I’d be screaming at myself in my head to just stop this shit, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t do anything.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Shit got weird, and he left me.”  
  
Just talking about this, Brian’s entire demeanor had changed; he wasn’t the confident ad exec anymore; he wasn’t a man on the brink of forty; he was a frustrated man stumbling around in a dark room trying to find his light switch of denial, so you softened your voice a little, gave him a little time to feel his way around… Let him tread water for awhile…  
  
“Okay, let’s back up a little. There’s a pattern or a reflex in your relationship—things get difficult or tense and someone has to leave or the scenery has to change. You see that, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You and Justin had to the leave this place last night; you left Justin at the hotel later on, you left him today at the church—"  
  
“That’s not the same thing,” he interrupted you.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“When he leaves, he _leaves._ He goes; he’s gone.”  
  
“You don’t leave him like that?”  
  
“No, never.”  
  
“Tell me why he leaves. Is it the same reason over and over?” you asked.  
  
“No. The first time he left me for someone else.”  
  
That surprised you, “Okay. Who?”  
  
“A musician.”  
  
“Someone who could express himself?”  
  
“Yeah. Then he left to go to Hollywood.”  
  
“To express himself?”  
  
Brian looked at you like you were an irritating fly buzzing around his head, “Yeah, and then when he came back, he left because—"  
  
“ _You_ couldn’t express yourself?”  
  
“Fine, whatever.”  
  
(Different reasons, indeed. A rose, a tulip, a daffodil...all growing in the same garden...)  
  
……  
  
“What did you do when Justin left that time, Brian; when he was back from LA?”  
  
Brian laughed, seemingly at himself, at his defeat, “I went over to my friend’s house and tore him a new one.”  
  
“Your friend?”  
  
“The writer.”  
  
“Michael? The surrogate?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah. I killed the messenger.”  
  
……  
  
“And Justin?” you asked.  
  
“He got to watch,” Brian said, proud and ashamed of it at the same time.  
  
“Once again, once removed?”  
  
Brian’s shoulders sank, “Yeah.”  
  
“Well at least you were finally expressing yourself.”  
  
……  
  
“Brian, looking back on it, what do you think would’ve happened if you’d given Justin what he wanted when he came back from LA?”  
  
……  
  
And as you waited for an answer, the color began to disappear from Brian’s face again…  
  
……  
  
So you back pedaled, “It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. I understand.” You could tell by the look on his face that Brian understood, too. “You weren’t ready,” you told him. “It’s okay. You didn’t know why. Forget it; let it go.”  
  
Brian’s voice was wavering as he told you, “But then the club exploded.”  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
  
  
_in all the time I've known you  
I still don't know what you mean _  
  
Your phone call to Justin revealed that he was at Daniel’s in your studio, and he seemed mildly pleased when you told him you were on your way, and when you let yourself in, the whole place was dark—blinds drawn, doors shut, including the one to the studio; the day had begun to get cloudy so everything was covered with shades of gray as you climbed the stairs and tapped on the door, “Justin? It’s me.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
You let the door pop open, and your eyes adjusted to the room, even darker than the rest of the house because there were shades on the studio windows; Daniel and Sam had installed them for Amelia, for when she was napping or staying over. You left the door open so you could see better. Justin was lying on the futon, sprawled on his back, one knee up, the other leg halfway on the floor facing the covered windows, a tiny border of light trying to peek through each one.  
  
“Can you shut the door?” he asked you without even turning in your direction.  
  
“It’s awfully dark in here,” you said.  
  
“Light a candle or something.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
So you fished in your desk for a match and lit a candle that sat on a small table in the corner of the room which put the light behind Justin; he moved his legs, so you could sit on the other side of the futon and continued to stare at the ceiling.  
  
“I got your message late because I was in Macy’s; I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” he said.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“You said you needed to talk to me.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
His shin was pressed against your thigh, and you let your hand rest there, curious to see if he’d push you away, but he didn’t, “I’m listening.”  
  
“I can’t speak at Alan’s funeral tomorrow,” he said.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Are you going to?” he asked.  
  
“Yeah, I am.”  
  
“What are you going to say?”  
  
“I’m not sure yet, probably whatever comes out of my mouth.”  
  
……  
  
He covered his eyes with his forearm, “I tried to write something, but nothing came out; I mean, nothing that I could say. I just don’t think I can.”  
  
You shrugged, a little confused as to why he was so focused on that, “You don’t have do to anything you don’t want to do, Justin. Tomorrow’s about you saying good-bye to Alan however you want to. You can do anything you want.”  
  
……  
  
“Are you ready to tell him good-bye?” he asked you.  
  
“Am I ready…?” You pondered the question for a while… “Mostly, I think I am. In a lot of ways, I think I said good-bye to him a long time ago. I’m not sure; I think some of the readiness will actually come tomorrow.”  
  
……  
  
Justin seemed so distressed, so out of sorts, so uncomfortable, you thought you’d just make light conversation for a few minutes, “Hey, off the subject, but why is Daniel’s chair in here?”  
  
……  
  
Of all the words you’d ever spoken in your life, those were the ones you wished you could take back.  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_this could be the end of everything_  
  
You weren’t planning on bringing up the explosion at Babylon, but since Brian did, you kept him going, “I read about that,” you told him, “Let’s keep a wide lens on it so you don’t get sick again, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Justin wasn’t hurt—"  
  
“No, but Michael was, my friend— It almost obliterated the messenger,” Brian said, looking tired all of sudden as if the years of all this grief were finally starting to sink in; his age was returning. “He’s Jenny’s father.”  
  
“So he’s part of Gus’s life as well; it would’ve been a huge loss all around?”  
  
“Enormous.”  
  
“The tragedy, it brought you and Justin back together?”  
  
“Tragedies have a way of doing that,” Brian said, almost flippantly, the emotions beginning to saturate him. “That’s when I asked him to marry me. He refused the first time, and then he agreed.”  
  
“He didn’t believe you were serious the first time or something?”  
  
“I believe the technical term is ‘full of shit.’”  
  
……  
  
“Tell me why you didn’t get married,” you asked him, trying to steer him away from images of blood and ambulances.  
  
“We are married.”  
  
“You know what I mean, before.”  
  
“So he could come here.”  
  
“He could’ve come here married; there’s no law against that.”  
  
“I told you I didn’t want him to feel obligated.”  
  
“Did you believe that he loved you?”  
  
Brian smiled and laughed at little, “Yes.”  
  
“Why is that funny?”  
  
“I don’t know; it just is.”  
  
“So you love him; he loves you, but you don’t know if he’s ever coming back?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Did _he_ know if he was going to come back?” you asked.  
  
“I don’t know; you’d have to ask him.”  
  
And then it was your turn to laugh, “No, thanks. I don’t do couples counseling.”  
  
“You don’t?” Brian asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because it’s bull shit.”  
  
……  
  
And then you asked Brian something that you and Daniel had been wondering about since Justin had set foot back in the city with a ring on his finger, “Why didn’t Justin invite any of his city friends to the wedding?”  
  
Brian looked at you and laughed, his eyebrow headed for the ceiling, “Because our bed isn’t big enough.”  
  
“There was no ceremony?” you asked.  
  
“I wouldn’t say that.”  
  
“Who officiated?” you asked, strictly on Richard’s behalf because he was _dying_ to know.  
  
“My dick.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_somewhere, somehow,  
somebody must have kicked you around some_  
  
The string you were trying to pull, you’d see it for a few seconds and then it would disappear again, sucked back up into this emotional quagmire, but you kept trying, determined to grab it…  
  
So, basically, “You pushed Justin out of the nest, right?” you asked Brian.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“For the same reason you push anybody.”  
  
“But when he left to come here, he left knowing that you really loved him, unlike when he went to California. Is that a fair assessment?"  
  
“Yeah, I made sure of it,” he said, possibly unaware that he was sliding his ring up and down his finger. He was correcting a mistake; you got the feeling it was the first of many, and your instincts told you that some of ones he was correcting didn’t even belong to him; he was trying to shed a legacy. So you asked him if it was okay to switch gears for a while, to focus on something else for a few minutes, and Brian seemed relieved. You asked about his family and listened as he talked about them, no warmth in his voice, no emotion really, mostly a stale disgust, and when you asked if he ever saw any of them, he told you no and, “My father’s dead.” You took the knife from your right side and sat it in front of you, next to the spoon.  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that; when did he die?”  
  
“When I was twenty-nine.”  
  
“How was your relationship with your father before he died?” Brian laughed at you. “So you were estranged from your father?”  
  
“That’s putting it mildly.”  
  
“What kind of relationship did you have with your father growing up?”  
  
“He beat me; let’s leave it at that.”  
  
“That’s a horrible thing for a father to do to his son, Brian. I’m sorry that happened to you.”  
  
“He’s dead; it’s over.”  
  
“Tell me a little bit about him; what was he like?”  
  
Brian looked at you with his glass of ginger ale in his hand, suddenly holding it like it was something much more potent, and shook his head, “There’s nothing to tell. My father was a blue collar bully, and he’s dead. The end.”  
  
So you went in the back door, “Point taken. But if he were alive today, what would he think of the man you become?”  
  
Brian sneered, “I’m a fag, Jon. Please.”  
  
“Okay, I understand that; let’s just put that aside for a moment. What would he think?”  
  
Brian was quiet for a few seconds, staring at the tablecloth, running his finger across the fabric, and then he looked up at you soaked with the realization, “He’d be proud of me.”  
  
“Really? He would, why?”  
  
“Because I’m just like him, only my collar’s white.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_pass before my eyes,  
a curiosity_  
  
Although much of your conversation with Brian that afternoon was wandering all over the place, the duality you were interested in was coming into focus, slowly but surely, separating within him like oil in water…  
  
“What kind of relationship did Justin have with his father?” you asked Brian.  
  
“Before me or after me?” he asked.  
  
“You think you changed Justin’s relationship with his dad?”  
  
“Yes…I know I did. I know I have. Back then…his father attacked me once when he saw Justin and I making out outside a club.”  
  
“Were you badly hurt?”  
  
“I was on the ground; he kicked me repeatedly in the ribs. Justin was screaming at him, trying to pull him off.”  
  
“Was this before or after Justin was attacked?”  
  
“Before.”  
  
“You didn’t retaliate?”  
  
“Not then and never physically.”  
  
“You retaliated later?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“In front of Justin?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why did I retaliate?”  
  
“No, why not in front of Justin?” Brian looked at you and then looked away, like he didn’t want to answer you. “Because parents shouldn’t fight in front of the children?” you continued.  
  
Brian’s eyes shifted back to your face, “No, because it was between Craig and I.”  
  
“Man to man?” you asked.  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Not man-to-son to man who’s fucking that man’s son?” You garnered no response from Brian, so you switched lanes, “Brian, are Justin’s parents still married?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because they got divorced.” (Ask a dumb question; get a dumb answer)  
  
“How old was Justin when they got divorced?” you asked.  
  
“Eighteen, nineteen, somewhere in there.”  
  
“So after Justin got hurt then?”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_he learned to walk while I was away_  
  
This was when the rest of your first-hand knowledge about Daniel, Justin and company came into play because although you were no miracle worker nor a psychic, you’d been a faithful fly on the wall of Daniel’s heart since the night he met Justin and knew enough about Daniel to lead you to some conclusions about Justin before you’d ever even considered Justin your friend. Daniel was an only child, his father a hospital administrator, a high-powered, well paid man who died out of the blue when Daniel was thirteen—after lunch in his office from an undiagnosed heart condition. Daniel became a doctor because of that tragic moment in his life and took forever to come to terms with specializing in Psychiatry because he felt he was never doing enough, that maybe if he became a heart surgeon he could bring a dead man back to life. Since then, he’d admitted to you that he finally chose Psychiatry because he thought it would be ‘a lot less life and death,’ and you told him that he was abhorrently naive if he really believed that because Psychiatry is nothing more than presiding over a protracted death sentence in very expensive, fifty-minute increments.  
  
So when Daniel would gravitate toward lovers who were way too young for him, who were unsettled and aimless or committed but not to him, you were never really surprised because you never felt like Daniel really wanted a partner; he wanted a son of sorts. He wanted to be the father who didn’t just die one day and leave his family shrouded in grief and uncertainty; he wanted to be the answer to someone’s question, the reason that Justin felt safe and welcome in the city. It meant more to Daniel than Justin ever understood; it was the reason that Harper was still around…because she did. She could relate to Daniel, to the need to take care of somebody, to be the person who wouldn’t disappear. And as you sat across from Brian that day, you could feel that vibe coming off of him; he seasoned it a little and was much more astute at disguising it, but by the same token, his was like the Cocaine you’d buy from your friends in the Eighties—sinfully pure and at such a high price.  
  
“Brian, is Justin’s father proud of him?” you asked him, watching him closely as he absorbed your question.  
  
Brian’s eyes locked on yours when you asked, his gaze had become untrusting again as he answered you with a lie lined with velvet, “I wouldn’t know.” You didn't care that he lied to you because it wasn't the real question anyway...it was the bait. And next came the switch: “Does Justin know?” And though the answer to both questions was the same, it was the truth of the second one that was destroying Brian more than the first. You didn’t need him to answer it. “Has it always been that way?” you asked him.  
  
“Since I’ve known him,” Brian said quietly.  
  
This was the loose end you’d been pulling, and now you’d finally gotten to it, you’d unraveled the entire ball of yarn and found the knot in the middle, the one that had been there for years, that gave the ball its shape in the first place. You didn’t have to spell it out for Brian; he knew that you’d figured it out; he knew that his efforts to disguise this aspect of his relationship with Justin were aging just like he was, wearing like an old pair of jeans, threadbare at the knees. But there was another side of all of this that was really concerning you, the side he wasn’t seeing, and that’s what you needed to help him with so that he, in turn, could begin to help Justin.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_will you walk with me out on the wire?_  
  
The afternoon was ticking away; you knew it and Brian knew it. You didn’t have much more time to make a real difference, so you told Brian as much and more, “Brian, last night, when we brought Justin to Dan’s, he was truly frightened about what had happened to you, heartbroken even—"  
  
He interrupted you, “It’s done, okay? I can’t go back and erase it now. I’ve gotta go forward.”  
  
“You’re right, you do, but I want to talk to you a little bit about Justin, about what happened, so you can move forward; I need you to help me with a few things.”  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
“Dan and I talked to him after he’d gotten you calmed down and you’d fallen back asleep, and Justin gave us the brief synopsis about what’d happened to him, but it was almost emotionless, almost like he was talking about a horrific event that happened to someone else. But when I tried to press Justin for information, he changed the subject and made it about you.”  
  
Brian looked confused, as if he was suddenly surrounded by fruit flies that fed on his guilt, “What do you mean? All about me?”  
  
“He had a very difficult time talking about it from his own point of view. He talked about your feelings as if they were his own.”  
  
“What feelings?” Brian asked.  
  
You smiled, “Well, exactly, that’s what I mean. What feelings? There were none. He said the guy that attacked him got community service, and when I asked him how he felt about that, he said he didn’t know because he was recovering.”  
  
Brian shrugged, “Well, he was.”  
  
“Okay, so then I asked him how you felt about it, and again, no real emotion; he said that you think that’s the way the world works, that you expected the outcome.”  
  
“I suppose I did.”  
  
Brian’s tone of voice was as flat as it was when he’d ordered lunch earlier, no passion at all; if you didn’t know better, you’d think he wasn’t even interested in the subject you were discussing. So you took a very quick, very calculated risk…  
  
“Brian, why did Chris hit Justin?”  
  
“He saw us dancing at the prom—"  
  
“No, I mean why did he hit _Justin_? Why didn’t he go after you or both of you? Surely, you were much more of a threat to him than Justin.”  
  
……  
  
“I was in the car,” he said, his words metering out like they’d been stuck in mud for years.  
  
“He waited until Justin was alone?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah. He followed us....” The expression on Brian’s face began to change; he wasn’t ordering lunch anymore. “He watched us goofing around and kissing and saying good-bye…and that’s…  
  
……  
  
  
“…that’s when he went after…him.  
  
……  
  
“Fucking little coward.”  
  
……  
  
You weren’t sitting across from a man who fainted at the sight of blood anymore, you were sitting across from a man whose fists were tightening, whose jaw was setting firm, who was experiencing this anger for the first time in all its substantive glory.  
  
……  
  
“Brian?” You said his name, calling him back to the present. “Brian, tell me—"  
  
……  
  
His eyes closed tight and then re-opened to stare at you again like you’d caught him robbing a bank. He wasn’t sick or dizzy or anything but furious.  
  
“Where’s this anger been, Brian?”  
  
……  
  
After about another minute, he finally admitted that he didn’t know.  
  
……  
  
Normally, this would’ve been the moment you’d stop and say, ’We’ve done some excellent work today; we’ll pick up here next week’ but there was no next week. There was only that night and tomorrow and a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that if you left it there, it would hang right there for a long time—maybe even forever—because Brian, despite his best intentions, was frozen. You’d gotten him to the hand off, to the point that Justin grabbed the baton and took off running and hadn’t been seen since…  
  
……  
  
It was time to set the table.  
  
*********************  
  
  
  
_I took a wrong turn and I just kept going_  
  
“Brian, I’ve hardly known you long enough to do what I’m about to do, but in the interest of time, and the fact that I’ve known Justin for a while, I’m going to give you my two cents. You can stop me whenever you want.”  
  
“No, go ahead,” he said, “I’m tired of talking.”  
  
“Okay,” you said, “Here goes nothing.”  
  
You picked up the fork and put it back where it belonged, “That anger that you just felt a few minutes ago, that paralyzed you, that practically shut you down, that’s why Justin came here. He came here to dispose of it, to get rid of it for both of you. He’d tried so many times before to get rid of it, tried and failed, and ended up right back where he started. I think, this time, he was determined to do it right. That was probably why your separation felt so open-ended; I’m sure Justin didn’t know how long it was going to take him to get rid of something considering it didn’t even belong to him.”  
  
……  
  
You stopped; the look on Brian’s face; you couldn’t even describe it. “Are you all right?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispered.  
  
“Keep going?” you asked.  
  
He nodded.  
  
……  
  
You returned the spoon to it’s former position, “Justin has taken on this burden either by choice or obligation; I’m not really sure, but it’s something he’s felt for years, and everyone around him recognizes it as his burden as well, even Hollywood. They wanted him and not Michael. Even you see it as his burden, unable to stop yourself when you know you’re hurting him, weighing him down with more than he can carry, forcing him to leave you when it comes to a head instead of helping him work through this stuff.”  
  
A tear ran down Brian’s face, and he let it fall; he didn’t stop it or even acknowledge it.  
  
……  
  
“Brian, let’s stop, okay? This is too much.”  
  
“No, don’t stop. Go.”  
  
“Brian,” you insisted.  
  
“ _Go._ ”  
  
……  
  
  
“When you told Justin to put his anger into his work, he did, but you didn’t realize that he was the guardian of your anger as well, and he gladly did as you instructed him, but when you turned around and bought it back, it was like a slap in the face to him. He went to unbelievable lengths to get it away from you, Brian. He made an entire comic book that someone else wrote; he went to California to make a movie about it; he post-poned his own relationship with you to come here and bury it.”  
  
“Jesus Christ.”  
  
“And now, Brian, all of these things have failed. The comic book is dead; the movie tanked; he came back to you to find his artwork in your home, and last night you scared the fuck out of him thinking that he’d gotten hurt again. He’s terrified, Brian. He’s trying to protect you, and he can’t.”  
  
“He doesn’t need to protect me.”  
  
“ _You’re_ his role model, Brian. That’s like telling the son of a four star general not to join the army.”  
  
And finally you took the knife and put it back next to the spoon, “You have to understand why he’s doing this, how high the stakes are for Justin. You’re more to him than his lover or his partner; you’re his foundation. You were the man he turned to when he was coming out, when he was hurt, when he was recovering; you’re everything to him. His family fell apart; his relationship with his father is adversarial; you yourself weren't even surprised when his efforts failed. He's killing himself trying to do the impossible. He’ll do anything to keep you safe, losing you or seeing you in pain is unbearable to him because every time he peels back a layer of his life, you’re an integral part of that memory, and you know that. It’s why you take such good care of him, give him so much freedom. He’s more than a partner to you as well.”  
  
……  
  
You couldn't see Brian's face for a solid minute.  
  
……  
  
“How do I fix this?” he finally asked.  
  
“You get some help. Stand on your own two feet about this stuff, so that Justin can stand on his. He has his own feelings, his own questions, about what happened to him that he can’t even reach much less express because he’s so concerned about you. Do you understand that?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “I understand.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_you don’t need no baggage,  
you just get on board_  
  
Your time was up.  
  
You made your point, and Brian was on the move again, just as he was when he stormed out of the church hours before, and it was your choice: keep up or get lost. So you got up and started putting your wallet and your pager in your pocket and then Brian asked you, “What’s your hourly rate?”  
  
“Insured or uninsured?”  
  
“Fuck, who cares?”  
  
“High end, five fifty an hour,” you said.  
  
“Are you shitting me?”  
  
“I’m good at what I do.”  
  
Brian threw a wad of bills on the table, “Well, fifteen hundred’s gonna have to cover it.” And then he turned to your waiter who’d been watching him like a hawk, “It’s not a restaurant, but it’s the best I can do. Thanks for the service.”  
  
“And the discretion,” you added.  
  
“Absolutely, Mr. Kinney,” he said, “Anytime.”  
  
The young hostess who’d just come on duty, a beautiful, young, skinny wisp of a girl who smelled like lilies opened the door for both of you as you walked out, “Mr. Kinney, Dr. Massey, have a nice afternoon.”  
  
“Hey,” you told Brian once you were both inside a taxi, “She knew my name.”  
  
“Of course, she did,” he said, “You were with me.”  
  
……  
  
One call to Richard from your cab, and the two of you learned that Justin wasn’t at the church, but Sam was, and he confirmed that Harper was with Justin at the studio, so that’s where—against your better judgment—you and Brian were headed. You fought with Brian because he had no business going back there, but he wouldn’t take your advice and just go back to the hotel and wait for Justin, so you called Daniel’s cell and told him the two of you were on the way, to have the door unlocked because you weren’t going to allow Brian to loiter outside of Daniel’s place for more than a nanosecond lest he bite the dust again.  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_so take a look at me now  
there's just an empty space_  
  
You’d been home for almost half an hour, holding your own private vigil in your own kitchen trying to rework your speech for Alan’s funeral. It was an exercise in futility because your legal pad was wet from random tears, and your mind was worn out from wandering all over the place. But the call from Jon made you snap out of it, that and their almost instantaneous arrival about two minutes later.  
  
Brian stood at the bottom of the stairs once he was inside your place and looked up, “Is he alone in there?”  
  
“No, Harper’s with him. They’ve been in there for almost two hours.”  
  
Brian looked at Jon and then sat down on the bottom of the stairs, his long legs reminding you of a grasshopper, “Got anything to eat? Some crackers or something?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you said, and Jon followed you into the kitchen.  
  
……  
  
“How’d it go with Justin?” he asked.  
  
“Let’s just say it went,” you said. “You?”  
  
Jonathon gave you a quick synopsis of his afternoon:  
  
“Well, we switched the chairs, put the old one in the studio—"  
  
You stopped him, “What?”  
  
“We switched them.”  
  
“You put the old one in the _studio?_ Are you out of you fucking mind?”  
  
Jonathon looked at you, his eyes widening as he realized that _yes_ , he was out of his fucking mind, his hand covering his mouth, “Oh, fuck. I swear to god, I didn’t even think about that. Oh shit.”  
  
You shook the box of the crackers you were about to open in his face, “No wonder Justin won’t come out of there. Why didn’t you get rid of it? Jesus.”  
  
“I don’t know; I didn’t even think about it. Wasn’t that the whole point anyway? To stop trying to shovel everything under the proverbial rug?”  
  
You glared at Jon’s dead-on assessment as you backed out of the kitchen, “Well, next time, warn me when you’re planning on using such a big shovel.”  
  
“Why don’t you just pull up the fucking carpet?” Jon shot back. “Go with hardwood? It’s much easier to keep _clean.”_  
  
“I don’t have time for this right now,” you whispered to him in what he always refers to as your _Mommie Dearest_ voice, “We have _company_.”  
  
And by _company_ , you clearly meant _a fucking disaster._  
……  
  
So the two of you exited the kitchen to rejoin Brian on the staircase, but he wasn’t there so you and Jonathon took one look at each other and then started up the stairs, but halfway up, you were stopped by a tall figure tapping your leg through the banister, “I’m down here in the living room.”  
  
You were both relieved until you saw the double shot of whiskey in his hand.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_sit around gettin’ older_  
  
You watched as Jonathon tried to talk Brian out of it. “I’ll write you something, okay? Daniel’s got samples here. At least, give it a try, at least for today, okay? You can go back to whiskey after the funeral.”  
  
Brian tipped the glass back and the whiskey started to disappear into his mouth, but he didn’t swallow it; he swished and spit it back into the glass. “Mouthwash,” he said. “He expects it.”  
  
Jonathon stared at Brian like he was his new puppy that just started to paper train but spoke to you, “Whatcha got, Dan? Go get it.”  
  
So you disappeared into your office and re-emerged with Xanax and Ativan and Valium and handed them to Jon, “Pick your poison.”  
  
“And stay away from red wine, red anything really, just be careful, until you’ve had more therapy. I don’t want you to be schmoozing clients and hit the floor when somebody breaks out a Merlot.”  
  
……  
  
Jonathon said he was hungry and Brian had scarfed the entire box of crackers you’d given him, so you went in the kitchen and threw together some finger food, and the three of you sat in your living room for half an hour eating and talking, until finally, Jonathon was getting antsy, “How long are they gonna stay up there?”  
  
“Go pull the fire alarm,” Brian said, after he’d eaten all of the celery himself.  
  
That reminded you of when you were in college and, “Jon, remember when they’d do that just to get everybody on the front lawn so everybody could see who was fucking who?”  
  
Jon laughed, “Um, yeah. Never saw many girls on our lawn, did they?”  
  
“Except that one time, remember, and we were all freaking out, and it turned out to be Eddie’s sister?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. She picked a bad weekend to visit.”  
  
Brian was laughing, saying that talk of college was making him feel really old, and then Jon was kicking his shoes off and declaring, “Okay, I’m going up there; just to listen for a second; just to see if we’re anywhere near the end or if we need to go out for the evening.”  
  
“If he opens that door and sees you,” you warned him, and Brian finished your sentence, “God help you.”  
  
“God helps me everyday,” Jon said, “I’m fucking one of his underlings.”  
  
You and Brian laughed as Jonathon tip-toed up the stairs; he knew exactly where to step so as not to make them creak.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_tonight this fool’s just a halfway to heaven  
and a mile outta hell_  
  
With Jonathon on his clandestine mission, that left you and Brian alone for a little while. For years, you’d tried to imagine the kind of man that he was just from the little you’d seen of him the night he came to get Justin and the images of him that Justin had created in his studio, and you had to admit to yourself that you’d built him up quite a bit in your head, perhaps saw him the way you felt Justin did—perhaps a bit tainted with hero worship—but in your living room that late afternoon, you didn’t find him as imposing.  
  
“Jonathon said you fainted out front earlier?” you asked him.  
  
Brian rubbed the back of his head at the memory, “Yeah, luckily I wasn’t standing up at the time. He said I was squatting down on the ground.”  
  
“You don’t remember?” you asked him.  
  
“Not really, and I don’t think he wants me to talk about it. I get sick and stuff.”  
  
“Oh, sorry,” you said.  
  
“No problem.”  
  
……  
  
“There’s something I want to show you in my office,” you told Brian, “I need to show you before Jon comes back downstairs.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Brian got up and followed you into your office, and you closed the door almost all the way and started pulling out a package that was strategically hidden behind your sofa. When you turned around to show it to Brian, he was sitting at your desk which was covered with news clippings about Alan’s murder. You sat the package on the sofa. “Brian, you probably shouldn’t be looking at those. Some of them are crime scene photos.” You tried to gather up everything he didn’t have in his hands. Jonathon was going to kill you…  
  
“I’m not looking at the pictures,” he said. “I’m reading this article.”  
  
“What article?” you asked, still frantically looking all around him trying to grab everything you could find.  
  
“This article that says that the cops that beat Alan, that you testified against them, that the killing…may have been…retribution…”  
  
“Brian, give me that, please,” you said, grabbing it out of his hand.  
  
“Are they blaming you for his murder?”  
  
“It’s just speculation, okay? It’s just the media.”  
  
“Is it true?”  
  
“Is what true? That I testified against those cops? Yeah, I did. Over a year ago. They have anger management problems; they barely met the psychological requirements to be on the force to begin with, and no one took their earlier incidents seriously enough.”  
  
“It’s not your fault, Daniel.”  
  
“Brian, please. I’ve already caused both you and Justin a horrific amount of pain since what happened to Alan because I didn’t know about Justin; I don’t think we should talk about this, this is dangerous, okay? You’re not well.”  
  
“That’s not your fault either.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, where’s the fucking Xanax?” you asked the ceiling.  
  
“Here,” Brian said, handing you one out of his pocket, “Calm down. You go from like zero to queen in three seconds. What did you want to show me?”  
  
You flopped down on your couch next to the package you’d uncovered, “It’s hardly worth it now, trust me.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
You laughed because at that point the day really couldn’t get any worse and began to unwrap the bubble wrap, “This is what I’m giving Jon for his birthday in a couple of months. I wanted to show it to you to explain why we did what we did today, that we were truly worried about you and especially about Justin because—"  
  
He cut you off, “You don’t have to explain.”  
  
“It’s just that this isn’t the kind of stuff you fuck around with, and I know that Justin’s really angry at me right now.”  
  
“He won’t be pissed forever. He’ll get over it.”  
  
You weren’t convinced, but you had the gift unwrapped by then, “So instead of telling you all that crap, I was just going to show you this because it sort of expresses the same sentiment, and plus, it’s _so_ Jonathon:

 

 

  
  
  
  
“He’ll love it,” Brian said, a smile spreading across his face. “Did you fuck that artist, too?”  
  
“Um, that would be a negative, but you get ten points for having wit sharper than an ice pick.”  
  
“Why thank you,” he said. “How kind of you to notice.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_if you get caught between the moon and New York City_  
  
You stood with your hands stuffed in your pockets, your legs crossed, your right ear against the door of the studio and listened to the bits and pieces of conversation that were escaping now and then. Justin’s voice was virtually impossible to decode; his register was too low, but Harper’s wasn’t, and every few seconds you’d get a few words straight from her mouth, loud and clear…  
  
_"…well, it’s not exactly the same thing, Justin…  
  
"…because… we were children…  
  
"Okay, okay…. look… Justin… will you please... let me say something?...  
  
"It’s apples and oranges.  
  
"Okay, fine….red apples and green apples…  
  
……  
  
"Because…  
  
"Because....... we each lost our mother. Your situation...... different. And two, we were children."_  
  
……  
  
Harper sounded frustrated, worse than she usually did when Sam wouldn’t stop talking like Fozzie the Bear.  
  
_"…let me put it to you this way, then.... never get that chance now.... I’m ready to talk to him about it...won't matter.... he’s dead."_  
  
……  
  
_"I can’t do this anymore."_ And that was Justin’s voice which meant that he was way too close to the door. You almost pissed on yourself.  
  
_”"Please just sit down for a minute."_ Harper, closer.  
  
_"Please, Justin."_ Harper, farther away.  
  
You froze until you knew they no where near the door, turned around, and scurried back down the stairs.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_time is the season  
time ain’t no reason_  
  
“Well?” Daniel asked.  
  
“It’s probably going to be weird if they come out, and the three of us are sitting here,” you said.  
  
“What’s going on in there? Could you hear?” Brian asked.  
  
You shook your head and lied to him, “No, couldn’t really make anything out,” because you wanted to give Justin the chance to tell Brian what he felt, whenever he was finally ready. “I’m going to catch up with Richard, go back to the church. Why don’t you two come with me?”  
  
Daniel agreed immediately, but Brian refused, “No, I’m going to wait for him.”  
  
“Will you be all right?” you asked him.  
  
He pulled out a pocket full of pills you’d given him and put them on the coffee table, “I have an arsenal of happy pills; I should be fine, right?”  
  
“Stay out of the liquor cabinet, please.”  
  
“Aye, aye, doc,” he said, and then he saluted you.  
  
You handed him one of your business cards and wrote your pager number on it, “Here. Page me if you need me. I’ll call you right back.” Brian took it and laid it on the table with his medicine.  
  
“Good luck, Brian,” Daniel said. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.”  
  
“Yeah,” you said, “Just whatever you do, don’t fuck up any more furniture, okay?”  
  
He was laughing as the two of you were leaving, laughing and stretching out on the couch, “Yeah, I’ll try, but I have an overwhelming urge to trash this sofa right now. Don’t know if I can stop myself.”  
  
“Baby steps, Brian,” you told him from the doorway, “Baby steps.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_what’s your name, little girl,  
what’s your name?_  
  
_an hour later…_  
  
And it was baby steps that woke you up—so to speak—because for the second time that day you awoke to find yourself alone in a room with Amelia, only this time, she wasn’t sitting on your chest watching television, she was standing next to you while you napped on the sofa with one of Daniel’s stethoscopes hanging off of her head while she pressed the very cold end of it to your forehead. When you opened your eyes, she smiled at you like you were a Christmas tree and she was the very bright star on the top.  
  
“Hi, Amelia,” you said.  
  
She smiled and laughed and did a little move that was some sort of toddler ecstasy, and then got serious again, “You’re bery, bery sick, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“I am?” you asked her, trying to move the stethoscope cord off of your face.  
  
She pointed her finger at you, “You took a bery good nap, but you have a feber.”  
  
“Is that why you have a stethoscope on my head?”  
  
“It’s your tempature.”  
  
You turned your head toward the coffee table and noticed that it’d been completely cleaned off, no magazines, no meds, nothing. “Amelia, where’s the medicine that was on the coffee table?”  
  
“Daddy put it up high,” she told you, “’Cause it’s bery dangerous.”  
  
“Where is Sam?” you asked her.  
  
She started moving the stethoscope down your face, onto your chest, down your arm; the ever-serious look on her face never changing as she answered your questions, “Yeah...he’s upstairs ‘cause if Mommy doesn’t come down right now I’m gonna borget what she looks like.” When you laughed, she looked at you, studied your face, and then pretended to laugh as well, and then she walked back up to your head to break the horrible news to you in person, “I’m bery, bery sorry, Brime Kinney, but you have to go to the hobspittal.”  
  
“Why?” you asked.  
  
“You have affection.”  
  
“Um, I don’t think I have to go to the hospital for that.” _Maybe straight to bed for a solid week,_ you thought, _but not to the hospital. Bad case of affection could put me down for a month even…that wouldn’t be so bad…_  
  
The next expression that arrived on her face was one of Harper’s, one of exasperation, and then she bent down and stood back up, smacking your stomach with her little black purse, “You have to have a big shot then if you don’t go to the hobspittal ‘cause you’re so ‘tagious.” You started to have Syphilis flashbacks while Amelia wandered into Daniel’s office and came back out with an ink pen. When she started jabbing you in the hip with it and telling you to, “Roll ober ‘cause it’s so big,” you put an end to her little game.  
  
“I’m sorry, but you have to have _a lot_ more training before I’ll roll over for you, sweetheart. Go put Daniel’s pen back where you found it.”  
  
She was so enthused that you were sitting up and talking to her that she did what you said, looking back over her shoulder a couple of times to see if you were still there as she walked away. You put her little purse and the stethoscope on the coffee table and looked up to see Justin on the stairs watching you.  
  
“Hey,” you said.  
  
“Hey.” He smiled.  
  
Amelia came back out, immensely proud of herself for following your instructions, “I put it back right where I founded it, Brime Kinney!”  
  
“Good job,” you told her as she came back over and stood in front of you. You picked her up and put her in your lap, but your eyes were on Justin because he was walking over and sitting down next to you, too.  
  
“Hi, Waffle,” Amelia said.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Why does she call you that?” you asked him.  
  
“It’s a very, very long story,” Justin said.  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s onceupomatime,” Amelia said, standing up in your lap so she could walk back and forth between you and Justin.  
  
“That’s right,” Justin said as she came his way. “Once upon a time.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_once in your life you find her,  
someone that turns your heart around_  
  
Sam and Harper came down a few minutes later, and Amelia got to tell her version of shopping at Macy’s in which everyone she met was named ‘Macy,’ how she ‘got losted by the accident,’ and like any good story there was surprise twist at the end…  
  
“Amelia,” Harper said, “Show Daddy the money in your purse.”  
  
Amelia was in heaven during the story because she was the star, and she made a huge production of digging in her purse and pulling out the plastic ice cube she’d been toting around, “This is my fweezer money, Daddy, like Mommy.”  
  
“Freezer money?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yes, honey. You made me freeze my credit cards, so now our daughter thinks that anything in the freezer is money. Isn’t that wonderful?”  
  
(At that point, you weren’t sure who was enjoying this little production more—Amelia or her mother.)  
  
“Show Daddy the rest of your money, Amelia.” Harper said.  
  
So Amelia proudly—and right on queue--pulled four one dollar bills out of her purse one at a time and showed them to Sam who asked, “Where’d you get those?”  
  
Harper smiled at her husband, “She got those when she returned the bracelet she _stole._ ” (Sam looked mildly horrified.)  
  
But Harper and Sam were young parents then and not yet cognizant of the fact that the one golden rule of parenting is that the joke is _always_ on you…  
  
Because Amelia was still digging in her purse, desperately trying to help her mother show her father exactly what she meant and when she finally pulled her little hand out, her face gleaming with pride because she had tangible proof of what her money could’ve bought had it been so inclined—a tiny, colorful, _Hello Kitty_ bracelet—and she proclaimed with the enthusiasm of an Olympic gold-medalist, “Here, Daddy, look! It’s so ‘squisite ‘cause I stoled it!”  
  
And it was Harper’s turn to be horrified.  
  
......  
  
And in an odd way, it gave you hope. You weren’t the only well-intentioned soul in the world whose influence over someone much younger than you, someone that you loved in a way you could barely describe had gotten off track; maybe these things happen to everybody to some degree or another; maybe the stubborn, faulty reasoning of a beautiful, little girl with unbelievable taste in men could help you forgive yourself for what you felt you’d done to Justin.  
  
Because all those years that you thought you were keeping him safe with condoms, unconventional commitment, and insisting that he get a PhD in the _Brian Kinney Beer Before Liquor and Related Substances Program_ had been a complete joke, and, quite frankly, it really wasn't funny anymore.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_no good deed goes unpunished_  
  
Justin wasn’t really himself until you got back to The Regency which was about forty minutes after Amelia’s one woman show. You felt like you’d been at a party with him, some company thing that he didn’t really want to be at-where he was just cordial and polite to everyone, including you-until you got back inside your suite. But he didn’t move away from you when you put your arm around him on the ride back to the hotel and when you helped him out of the cab in front of the hotel, he never let go of your hand, walking a step behind you all the way through the lobby.  
  
But once you were alone with him, things began to change again…  
  
“How did this get here?” he asked, pointing to his garment bag hanging in the open coat closet as you stepped off the elevator.  
  
“That’s your suit. Gabe’s in town; I asked him to bring it…for tomorrow. They must’ve brought it up.”  
  
“Are my—?”  
  
“Your shoes are in there.”  
  
“What about--?”  
  
“I have a tie you can wear.”  
  
He walked over to your suitcase, flipped it over, and began to dig through your clothes, presumably to look at his options, and you were going to just go show him, but you didn’t really think that what he was in there mumbling about really had anything to do with ties, so you went into the outer room and sat down on the sofa and looked out the window at the view of the city. It was five o’clock and the frenzy was starting.  
  
“I don’t really like any of the ones you brought,” he told you from the doorway of your bedroom. “They don’t look like me; they look like you.”  
  
You stared out the window, wondering if it was going to rain, “There’s one in there that’s just black. You can wear that one.”  
  
“I don’t like that one either.”  
  
……  
  
“Then don’t wear one.”  
  
……  
  
You knew he was just standing in the doorway, staring at you with his arms crossed because that’s what he does, so you offered up another alternative, “Call downstairs. They’ll get you anything you want. You can pick it out online; they’ll go get it.” He waited a few seconds and then disappeared from the doorway.  
  
He said nothing; he just closed the door between you—a quiet but firm click.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then_  
  
You watched as it began to rain, watched it trickle down the window, felt the darkness fight and then give up as it began to settle too early over the room. You stared at the door he’d closed between you; there was no light underneath it, no invitation. He’d given up as well. You knew on some level that you had work to do, that you needed to get up and do _something_ , but that something was stopping you because you found yourself, once again, faced with a revolving bookcase of sorts…the kind that you’d seen in the _The Addam’s Family_ … only yours was fashioned not out of books of Morticia’s incantations but out of the decade of guilt you’d harbored because of that one night, and when it turned, it wasn’t a fake fireplace ready to blend in with the rest of the room, it was a patchwork of indecision, a rouse to fool yourself—and Justin-- that you were doing what was best for him by doing nothing. After all, if he disagreed, if he pushed you against the wall, well, all you had to do was smile, and, lo and behold, it disappeared.  
  
_Voila!_  
  
As you sat there watching the rain, your sense of obligation began to knit, to repair the connection between the two of you, willing to bear the burden for the time being. You got up and tapped on the door, and when he didn’t respond you opened it. Your suitcase was on the floor, and he was lying on the bed, facing away from you, staring out the window at his own storm.

  
  
Lyrics taken from Sam Cooke’s _A Change Is Gonna Come_ , _What A Wonderful World_ , Def Leppard’s _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ , Oasis’s _Wonderwall_ , Bob Seger’s _Against the Wind_ , Jamiroquai’s _Virtual Insanity_ , Gene McLellan’s _Put Your Hand in the Hand_ , Culture Club _Time_ , Steely Dan’s _Babylon Sisters_ , Bert Russell Berns’s _Tell Him_ , Bruce Springsteen’s _Born to Run_ , Steely Dan’s _Do It Again_ , Keane’s _Somewhere Only We Know_ , Kenny Loggins’s _Whenever I Call You Friend_ , Billy Joel’s _It’s Still Rock ‘n’ Roll to Me_ , Fastball’s _Out of My Head_ , Bob Seger’s _Against the Wind_ again, Keane’s _Somewhere Only We Know_ again, Tom Petty’s _Refugee_ , Kansas’s _Dust in the Wind_ , Harry Chapin's _Cat's in the Cradle_ , Steely Dan’s _Reelin’ in the Years_ , Bruce Springsteen’s _Born to Run_ again and _Hungry Heart_ , Curtis Mayfield’s _People Get Ready_ , Phil Collins’s _Against All Odd_ from the motion picture soundtrack _An Officer and a Gentleman_ , Bruce Springsteen’s _Dancing in the Dark_ and _Better Days_ , _Arthur’s Theme (Best that You Can Do)_ by Christopher Cross, Blue Oyster Cult’s _Burnin’ for You_ , Lynyrd Skynyrd’s _What’s Your Name?_ , _Arthur’s Theme (Best that You Can Do)_ by Christopher Cross again, John Mellencamp’s _Crumblin’ Down_ , and Bob Seger's _Against the Wind_ again.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://blackwhiteicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackwhiteicons**](http://blackwhiteicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://dramadiva-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**dramadiva_icons**](http://dramadiva-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://driveon-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**driveon_icons**](http://driveon-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , [](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_goddess**](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/) , [](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**amillionicons**](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/684469.html#)[**joelzbutterly**](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/684469.html#) , [](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_duration**](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/) , [](http://timepunching.livejournal.com/profile)[**timepunching**](http://timepunching.livejournal.com/) , [](http://andos-pics.livejournal.com/profile)[**andos_pics**](http://andos-pics.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)


	42. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 39-Crucible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 6/3/07] This chapter took up 2 posts on LJ. It's posted here in full. Also... many of the graphics in this chapter are .gifs. If you are reading this in a .pdf format, that aspect of the story is converted to a still image. In some sections, I used images to tell the entire POV.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 39-CRUCIBLE**  
  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_some things are better left unsaid,  
but they still turn me inside out_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_sunshine set on this cold lonely sea_  
  
Never.  
  
Never in your entire life had you walked into a room, seen Justin lying on a bed, been so physically close to him and felt so far away. The bedroom was your domain no longer; you were standing on foreign soil. He wasn’t asleep; the pace of his breathing gave him away, but you could feel his ambivalence in every breath; he didn’t care that you were standing there. He couldn’t, actually, but you wouldn’t understand that for a while. No longer could you anesthetize yourself by watching him from behind a narrow pane of glass, reassuring yourself that he was okay because all of the machines said everything was working right, you were on your own and so was he, and the latter was what you couldn’t stomach anymore. You were going to say his name to get his attention but then realized you didn’t know what would come after that, so instead you lay down on the bed behind him, slowly as if too much movement might break him into a million pieces, and then very carefully propped yourself on your right side so you could put your arm around his waist—  
  
“ _Not_ now.”  
  
Or not.  
  
……  
  
And so you remained…  
  
Parallel.  
  
……  
  
Unconnected.  
  
……  
  
Silent.  
  
……  
  
You tried to collect your thoughts, to put yourself in his shoes, to empathize with him the way you can empathize with a client who’s in dire need of your help. Justin was in dire need of something, but you were drawing a complete blank. And there was something familiar about that feeling, something you hadn’t felt in a long, long, _long_ time…  
  
“ _What for? To make you happy? So that you can tell yourself you fixed little Justin’s problems and made everything all better?  
  
“Well, you can’t fix this, all right? No one can.  
  
……  
  
“So why don’t you come fuck me before I pass out?”_  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_it’s a long way down when all the knots we’ve tied have come undone_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
  
  
_like anything I had felt before_  
  
As that Thursday afternoon in April folded into Thursday night, the rain tucking it in nice and neat and Justin right next to you but so distant, the effects of the day’s events began to crystallize inside you, to become a part of you; you could feel something different trying to find a place to hide. It was as if Jonathon had packed you up in a box, driven you all around the city at ninety miles an hour, and then dropped you off right where you started from, yet when you popped out of the box, you had no fucking clue where you were. The scenery, the people, looked the same, but you were convinced that that was just a trick your mind was employing in a cheap attempt to comfort you.  
  
And cheap had never really been your thing.  
  
Nevertheless, you were standing in a desert, confused and determined at the same time, realizing that the alter-egos that had always accompanied you on these junkets—the stud who reigned over the backroom, the misguided superhero, the high-powered executive who held people’s jobs and brand names and balls hostage with the stroke of a pen, the click of a mouse, or a raised eyebrow across a long conference room table—were useless to you in your new environment. And not because they didn’t want to help, but because they were a mirage. As you lay beside him in this new barren place, you had no use for anyone but Brian Kinney—the man—and you thirsted only for your own humanity and found yourself praying for rain.  
  
……  
  
" _Stop being a fucking princess and come give it a try._ ”  
  
Was he only to express himself on your terms?  
  
……  
  
“ _I want you to take him. I want you to take my son.”_  
  
Was it really _ever_ Justin’s call where he wanted to be?  
  
……  
  
“ _Now I get to stay with you.”  
  
“Just until you get better.”_  
  
Get better and be cast out?  
  
……  
  
“ _Well, you did it.”  
  
“Did what?”  
  
“Became the best homosexual you could possibly be.”_  
  
According to whom?  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_preach a little gospel,  
sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good_  
  
Earlier that afternoon, once you and Daniel returned to the church, you found Richard sitting in the very back pew listening to Nate play, the choir going to town, and Sarah singing lead on, of all things, a Dionne Warwick classic.  
  
“What in the name of Peter, Paul, and Mary is going on in here?” you asked him.  
  
“ ** _I say a little prayer for you…”_**  
  
“I’m enjoying my own personal concert,” he whispered when you sat down beside him. “She’s good.”  
  
“ ** _Forever, forever, you’ll stay in my heart…”_**  
  
When you smiled, he nudged you, “So how’d it go?”  
  
“It’s a good thing Brian has a lot of money,” you said.  
  
“Oh boy,” he said, “You look tired.” He reached for your hand, but you moved yours away, furrowing your brow at him; sometimes he’d forget that you were still in a public place.  
  
“ ** _Together, together, that’s how it must be…”_**  
  
“You need to watch that,” you told him, “You’re starting to do that more and more.”  
  
“Sorry; I know. It’s the moment, I guess.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“ ** _To live without you could only mean heartbreak for me…”_**  
  
So he sat with his eyes straight ahead, watching the performance in front of him, and said very, very quietly, “So, I can sit here and tell you that I really want to go back to your place and fuck your brains out, but I just can’t touch you, right?”  
  
“It’s your ass on the line, Dick,” you whispered back.  
  
“And all I want is your dick in my ass,” he mused.  
  
“Well,” you told him, “No one ever accused you of having bad taste.”  
  
……  
  
Daniel was approaching the two of you then with a yellow piece of paper folded in his hand, and when he got to you, he handed it to you, “Here. This is what I was telling you about. This is what Justin wrote.” And with that, you took the papers he was handing you and opened them, your eyes skimming the pages reading Justin’s speech…  
  
_Alan was an artist as am I. He went to great lengths to hide parts of himself that he didn’t want others to see, as have I --_  
  
“Whoa,” you said; Daniel agreed and urged you to keep reading.  
  
_…orchestrating elaborate routines just to protect the ones he loved…  
  
That was the Alan I knew…_  
  
And the Justin you knew.  
  
_…the man who internalized everyone else’s fears and then tried to steal away with them…  
  
I guess I don’t understand why we let him do that…a fair exchange for what he was doing for us…_  
  
……  
  
“How was he after he wrote this?” you asked him.  
  
But Richard interrupted, “He wasn’t right; he wouldn’t stay here.”  
  
“Did you try talk to him?” you asked Daniel.  
  
“I talked at him; he wasn’t really listening; he couldn’t. He told me he needed to leave.”  
  
“And after this, he went to the studio to talk to Harper?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
You folded the papers up and put them in the pocket of your pants, “Well, now I understand why he never once interrupted us at the restaurant. Not a phone call or anything.”  
  
“Why?” Richard asked.  
  
“Why would he?” you asked. “He’s lost his faith in everyone.”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_I hear the ticking of the clock_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_I can’t tell what you’re feeling inside,  
I can’t sell what you don’t want to buy_  
  
More than anything, you needed that feeling of utter helplessness to go away, but even that felt wrong and selfish by then, and all you could feel, all you could hold on to, was the detachment Justin was nursing right next to you. Finally, when you could stand it no longer, you rolled toward him again keeping your hands to yourself and asked the back of his head, “Did you get what you needed? The tie, I mean?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You didn’t get it?” you asked again.  
  
“I don’t need it,” he said.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“What _do_ you need?” you tried again, the space between you beginning to echo all around you.  
  
His body shifted then, burying his hands under his pillow in the shadowed room, “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“There has to be something, Justin,” you said, “Something I can do to help you feel better.”  
  
……  
  
“There is,” he finally said, “You can leave me alone.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Jon’s words were echoing in your head like they’d been spoke in the Grand Canyon, “ _There’s a pattern or a reflex in your relationship—things get difficult or tense and someone has to leave or the scenery has to change. You see that, right?”_  
  
……  
  
You reached out for him again and put your arm around his waist, and he didn’t push you away, but, rather and even worse, became stiff and unyielding as you tried to hold him. “I can’t. I can’t leave you alone, not like this,” you said.  
  
“You can’t or you won’t?” he asked the wall.  
  
“Okay, I won’t. I won’t leave you alone like this,” you admitted.  
  
……  
  
“It’s always what you want, isn’t it?”  
  
……  
  
You let him go.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_I really don’t think you’re strong enough_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_I’ve got so much more to think about_  
  
When darkness fell that rainy Thursday evening, you and Jon were in a cab on the way to the closest grocery store because Dan was short a few ingredients he needed to complete that evening’s culinary masterpiece, and you made Jon come with you because you hadn’t really had five minutes alone with him all day. Jon wanted you to go to the store by yourself or drag Sam along, but you put your foot down for the first time because, well, you just felt like it. (You read in some magazine that gay men are prone to such emotional outbursts, so you thought you’d give it a try.)  
  
So you did…in Daniel’s guest bathroom…while Jon was taking a piss. (Perhaps your timing wasn’t exactly stellar…)  
  
“Why can’t you go to the store with me?” you asked.  
  
“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy today,” he said as he zipped up his pants.  
  
“I don’t want to take Sam,” you sort of whispered, “He’s really stressed out, and the more stressed out he gets, the more idiotic he acts. He’s been doing his Woody Allen impression for an _hour._ ”  
  
“So tell him to stop,” Jon said.  
  
“Right, then he’ll just start something even worse, like Bella Lugosi or something. Just come with me.”  
  
“If I come with you, who’s going to make sure that Daniel stays in the kitchen with his apron on, Richard? Because if he doesn’t, he’s thirty seconds from a nervous breakdown. Either he keeps cooking or he loses it. Who’s going to keep Harper and Sam focused on minuscule funeral preparations so that the reality of this bullshit doesn’t hit them until after the funeral, and so that you and I don’t end up with a barely-potty trained toddler in our bed tonight? Who’s going to—"  
  
You put your hand on his shoulder and squeezed, “Jon, even God took a day off.”  
  
“Yeah, and look what he’s got to show for it.”  
  
(Well, that did it.)  
  
“You’re coming with me,” you said, “You’re going to have a little faith, and you’re coming with me.” And then you yanked him outside into the rain and into a cab. When the door shut, Jon turned in his seat and smiled at you, “You’re kinda hot when you’re bossy.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
……  
  
Traffic was a mess, and Jon was obviously tired, his blond head leaning back against the seat, his eyes closing for awhile, and then opening again, staring out of his window pretending to listen to you and just to prove to yourself that you were right about that, you said, “I want to get a puppy the second Tuesday of next week and name him Elton John, only I want to spell it J- _O_ -N so I can say I named him after you.”  
  
“Okay,” he said, still staring out the window. “Sounds good.”  
  
“I wanna teach it how to suck your dick so I don’t have to do it anymore,” you added.  
  
“’Kay.”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll eat your ass; I mean dogs eat their own asses, right?”  
  
The cabbie started blaring the radio. “Jesus Christ,” Jon barked, “Can you turn that down a little? We’re trying to have a conversation back here.”  
  
He turned it back down and then looked at Jon in his rear-view mirror, “Sounded more like a recipe for some sicko’s X-rated Scooby Snack to me.”  
  
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Jon asked you.  
  
You shrugged your shoulders, “I have absolutely no idea.”  
  
……  
  
“This rain is ridiculous,” Jon began to complain. “It should be illegal to rain in New York or in any city where people walk everywhere. Why do we need rain here? We don’t have trees.”  
  
“You’re extremely cranky,” you told him, and you were about to offer him a little ‘something’ that might make him feel a little better a little later, but his cell phone rang before you could even get the words out. “Who is it?” you asked.  
  
Jon shook his head in exasperation, “Who do you think? Get the list out; I’m sure he’s about to add twelve more bottles of extra, extra virgin olive oil or something.” You handed him the piece of paper you’d folded up in your pocket.  
  
“I’m ready, Dan,” he said by way of a bypassed greeting, “What do you need?”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
  
  
_who’s coming to dinner?_  
  
_ten minutes earlier…_  
  
Amelia heard the knock on the door before you did; in fact, well, you didn’t hear it at all. You just turned around and realized that she was no longer in the kitchen with you, so you turned off the water, dried your hands, and pushed through the swinging door closest to the stairs calling her name, “Amelia?”  
  
“I’m waiting for you, Dr. Car-ride,” she said, and indeed, she was, standing on the exact spot in the foyer she’d been instructed to stand on when someone knocks on the door, a rule put in place a few months prior after too many instances of her flinging the front door open with no regard for who was on the other side—friend or foe.  
  
“Good job,” you said, “Someone’s at the door?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, “’Cause I hearded the knock knock.”  
  
“Okay.” You peeked through the curtain on the right side of the door, “Oh god; Amelia, can you go to the linen closet and get a towel for me? One of the ones you like?”  
  
“I’m ‘upposed to open the door,” she protested.  
  
“I need to open the door this time; I need you to be my helper and get a towel for me.”  
  
“Okay,” she said, running down the hall to the linen closet, and when she flung it open, essentially blocking her view from of the front door, you opened it and were greeted with a tall, dark, and dripping flash of déjà vu. “Brian, god, are you all right?” you asked, stepping out of the way so he could come inside. “What’s going on?”  
  
He wiped the rain off his face, “I guess you could say I’m under the weather.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_here comes the rain again_  
  
“I gotted a towel for you, Brime Kinney,” Amelia said, proudly offering her terrycloth gift to Brian as the three of you stood in the kitchen.  
  
“Thank you, Amelia.”  
  
Amelia climbed up on chair she’d been standing on while she helped you cook so she could be closer to Brian’s height, “’Cause you got rain-ded on, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“’Cause you don’t have a ‘brella.”  
  
“I forgot to bring it,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, I already knowed that.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brian said, “So do I.”  
  
“Brime Kinney, sometimes if you borget your ‘brella, you can just betend.”  
  
“That doesn’t work too well when it’s raining cats and dogs,” Brian said.  
  
Amelia climbed down off the chair and went into the living room to stare out the window.  
  
……  
  
“So where is he?” Brian asked you as Amelia left the room.  
  
“I thought Justin was with you,” you said.  
  
“Not Justin; he is with me.”  
  
“No he’s not,” you said, wondering if perhaps this really was déjà vu, but he wasn’t intoxicated, just tired and wet.  
  
Amelia wandered back in, climbing back up on the chair, “Brime Kinney, the cats and dogs are just betend.”  
  
“Justin’s at the hotel; I mean Jon,” Brian said.  
  
“'Cause I sawed the rain, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“Where’s Jon?” Brian asked.  
  
“Dr. Jon went to the store,” Amelia said, “With Faber Domelly ‘cause my mommy needed a twelf pack…’cause I knowed that.” And then Amelia proceeded to count to twelve leaving out six, seven and nine.  
  
“And I thought I exposed my son to a less than ideal environment,” Brian quipped.  
  
“Counting is important,” you said, laughing at the futility of all of it at that point.  
  
Amelia began to hang on Brian’s left arm as if it was part of a jungle gym, her legs climbing up his body, “Brime Kinney, I hafta tell you somethin’ ‘portant right now.”  
  
Brian wasn’t the least bit phased that he was being used as a piece of playground equipment; perhaps he was used to people crawling all over him, “I need Jon,” he told you.  
  
“Why didn’t you call him?” you asked.  
  
“Brime Kinney, I hafta tell you somethin’ ‘portant—"  
  
“Amelia, please wait a second,” you said, “I thought he gave you his number—"  
  
“Brime Kinney, I hafta—"  
  
“ _Amelia,_ please don’t interrupt when we’re talking,” you said.  
  
“I had it, but—" Brian began.  
  
“Brime Kinney—"  
  
“You couldn’t get it from Justin?” you asked. Not that you cared; it just seemed rather strange.  
  
“The only thing I could get out of Justin was a request for sushi.”  
  
“Sushi?” you asked. “Justin hates sushi.”  
  
“No fu—" and then he caught himself after glancing at the eyelash-batting barnacle attached to him, “I know that; I need Jon.”  
  
You pulled out your cell and dialed, and Amelia (well-trained and all) started whispering because you were on the phone, “ _Brime Kinney, I hafta tell you somethin’ ‘portant right now.”_  
  
“What?” he asked, pulling her up into his arms.  
  
She put her hands on his face, “ _It’s bery ‘portant ‘cause you borgotted your med-sin.”_  
  
“She’s right,” Brian said to you, “And Jon’s card is with it.”  
  
……  
  
Amelia, predictably, didn’t want Brian to go, but you told her that you’d help her draw a picture (in the studio, of course) of Brian before she went to bed that night and she could give it to him when she saw him the next day, and that helped pacify her, so she told Brian good-bye. It had truly been the highlight of Amelia’s day to be hoisted on Brian’s shoulders so she could hand you all of the samples you’d given Brian that Sam had hidden on the top of the china cabinet earlier that day. She handed them down—one by three by five by eight—and then found Jon’s business card up there as well. Brian commented on the nomenclature of your furnishings, “Don’t you think you should just quit calling this a china cabinet and call a duck a duck?” as he pointed to the bottles of liquor arranged behind the glass doors.  
  
“We all have a right to own our denial,” you told him.  
  
He smiled, “You’re not nearly as uptight as you put on, you know that?”  
  
“Nor you as impenetrable.”  
  
“I’ll bet you have a debate team trophy around here somewhere,” he said, pretending to look behind the liquor.  
  
“It’s on my desk at work,” you replied, and then he laughed because he thought you were kidding.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
  
“Thank you for finding my medicine,” Brian told Amelia as he was ready to leave.  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause you didn’t know you borgotted it ‘cause I already knowed that you borgotted it.”  
  
“That’s right. I’ll see you tomorrow at the church.”  
  
“Jon will meet you in the lobby of the hotel, Brian. They hadn’t even made to the store yet,” you told him as you handed him Jon’s card, “He wants you to call him from the cab.”  
  
“Thanks; sorry we keep meeting like this,” he said. “I’m sure you’re sick and tired of seeing me when you open your door.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, “I’m not even allowed to open my own door.” Brian laughed. “Good luck,” you told him. “Call if you need anything.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
And he left…with your umbrella.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_I’m lying here… the room’s pitch dark_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
  
  
_when the rain set in_  
  
“Tell him to double back,” Jon told you, pointing to the driver, “Fuck the store; we’re going to The Regency.” You did as you were so ordered, watching Jon as he flipped open his ringing cell phone and collapsed back against the seat again, “Brian, why the fuck did you leave him alone at the hotel?” The cabbie made a left turn that almost got the three of you killed. You said three Hail Maries under your breath. “Sushi? Why in the world?” Jon continued as you listened to the one sided conversation, “He doesn’t even like sushi….  
  
“Yeah, well, I reserve my bedside manner for those I’m actually in bed with.”  
  
_Promises, promises._  
  
“What happened?  
  
……  
  
“I’m almost there; we weren’t that far away.  
  
…..  
  
“Okay, okay. Wait for me in the lobby if you get there before we do…. You’re welcome.” And he flipped his phone shut and tossed it on the seat beside him.  
  
“What’s wrong?” you asked him. “What’s going on?”  
  
Jon looked at you like those were the two stupidest questions on the planet, his eyebrows raised, so you answered them yourself, “The Lord’s work is never done?”  
  
“Congratulations, my good man, you just won eternal salvation,” he said.  
  
“Well, I don’t want it,” you said, “Unless you’re coming with me.”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_life is bigger,  
it’s bigger than you,  
and you are not me _  
  
When you arrived at The Regency and before you could stop him, Richard had jumped out of the cab right behind you and followed you into the lobby; there was no immediate sign of Brian, so the two of you approached the front desk and when you inquired, you were told by a rain-dappled concierge-to-be that, “Mr. Kinney has stepped out, but his take out order is still behind the desk, so he hasn’t returned.”  
  
“You got the sushi?” you asked the overly-polite young man.  
  
“Yes, sir… but I probably shouldn’t have told you that; our guests, their affairs our confidential. I apologize.” He was so ashamed of himself; The Regency would’ve been so proud.  
  
“It’s not a problem. We’re on sushi-terms with Mr. Kinney,” you reassured him.  
  
“Yeah,” Richard added, “God will forgive you.” You looked at him and rolled at your eyes.  
  
……  
  
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” you told Richard once you sat on a rather posh loveseat. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”  
  
“Okay,” he said, and then he did it again—reached out, his hand aiming for your thigh. You stopped it, and put it back in his lap.  
  
“You’ve got to stop doing that, Richard.”  
  
“Right, give me the lowdown on being on the down lo again,” he said, but he wasn’t taking you seriously; he was trying to make you laugh.  
  
You turned and looked at him, “I’m serious. You’re doing it in the church, in the cab, in this place; you’re fucking outing yourself.”  
  
“Well, that’s better than out fucking myself, right?”  
  
“Why won’t you listen to me about this shit? I’ve been gay my whole life; you’ve been gay for three months. You’re a goddamn priest, Richard. Jesus.”  
  
“You’re being a dick because you’re massively stressed out, so I’m going to ignore you right now.”  
  
“Richard,” you protested.  
  
“I care about you, Jon. I can’t just turn it on and off like I’m some fucking television. Maybe that’s some part of being gay that I’m no good at. Maybe I’ll never be. Maybe you’ll just have to deal with it.” And then he stood up, “Anyway, Brian’s here.”  
  
“He’s going to the desk first,” you said as you got up, your eyes following him as he crossed the lobby. “If you don’t mind, can you just go back to Daniel’s, keep him company for me?”  
  
“Okay,” he agreed because he knew that’s what you wanted him to do, keep an eye on what you couldn’t see, “I’ll be glad to.” You were barely aware of the pattern emerging in your relationship with Richard at that time, how the emotional toll of in vs. out would almost always result in both of you finding solace in your vocations.  
  
As he was preparing to leave, Richard leaned forward and hugged you, and you almost pushed him back, but stopped, ignoring the warning bells going off in your head and let him because Richard’s cologne-- _Polo_ by Ralph Lauren applied far too liberally—well, it always made you feel twenty years younger, “Call me later, and good luck, Trapper John.”  
  
“I will, and don’t call me that in public. It makes me hard.”  
  
“I know. That’s why I said it.”  
  
As Brian approached, you watched Richard walk out of the hotel lobby —staring at the off-brand, denim-clad ass of your adorable, homo-clueless, catholic priest boyfriend wondering how in hell you were ever going to convince him that the only thing you’re supposed to buy out of a five hundred page catalog is office supplies.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“What the hell was that about?” Brian asked you.  
  
“Never mind.”  
  
“ _Oh_ …okay,” Brian said, joining you as you watched Richard disappear through The Regency’s lobby doors, reabsorbed into the rain. “You’re right,” he added, “His ass does look hot in those unbelievably awful jeans.”  
  
“And he got those on _clearance_ ,” you confessed, “That’s what makes it even more heinous.” And then you came to your senses, “But do you mind not ogling my piece of ass? You’ve already got more than you can handle.”  
  
“From your lips to God’s dick.”  
  
And then you looked at the bag in Brian’s hand. “Jesus Christ, how much sushi did you order?”  
  
Brian looked at you like you were an idiot, “A fucking shit load. How am I supposed to know what he wants to hate?”  
  
The two of you stood outside the penthouse elevator, an unspoken understanding between you that once you got inside, you were going straight to the top—no ifs, ands, buts or seconds to spare, and it was then that you began to wonder… if Brian could figure that much out about Justin, why the hell did he need you in the first place?  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_this is the fear,  
this is the dread,  
these are the contents of my head_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_there’s a little black spot on the sun today_  
  
So a bit of background work had to be done, “Justin won’t talk to me; that’s why I called you,” Brian told you.  
  
“Well, he’s obviously saying something because you went and got him sushi for dinner.”  
  
“That’s not what I mean,” he said, “The rest of him is completely shut down. I tried to talk to him, to ask him what was wrong; he’s not the least bit interested in what I have to say or me for that matter. And then I left the Xanax you gave me at Daniel’s and your card was with it, and he’s got his fucking cell phone in the pocket of his jeans and he’s laying on it just staring out the fucking window. He won’t move.”  
  
“You think he’s going to talk to me?” you asked.  
  
“You got a better idea?” Brian asked. “Because I can’t take this, and I know he can’t even if he’s not saying anything. I know him.” He was becoming visibly agitated, “Let’s just go up okay?”  
  
He opened the penthouse elevator and you stepped inside with him, the rise to the top being the opportune time to lay some ground rules for the situation, “Okay,” you said, “Listen to me. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it my way, got it?”  
  
“What’s that mean?” Brian asked.  
  
“That means I go in there and talk to him alone, and you don’t come in until I tell you to.”  
  
“No,” he said, “Absolutely not.”  
  
You hit the pause button on the elevator and it jerked and then stopped.  
  
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Brian demanded.  
  
“I’m serious about this, Brian. If he could talk to you about this, he would’ve already started. He can’t. You’re not coming in there.”  
  
……  
  
“He’s never going to forgive me for this,” Brian said to the wall of the elevator, his words echoing around you, the small space feeling even smaller.  
  
“You need to trust me on this.”  
  
But he was talking to himself, “Never…ever…ever.”  
  
“Brian, why do you think that?” You could feel the weight of this issue inside him; this was going to be the deal breaker.  
  
“Because I’m fucking him over—double-crossing him--plain and simple.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself.  
  
“You think _this_ is fucking him over, Brian? _This_ and not everything else he’s been dealing with on your behalf? Getting him _help_ is fucking him over?”  
  
“Jon…”  
  
“Brian, listen to me,” you said, grabbing the bag of take-out of his hand and holding it up his face, “Do you know what this is?”  
  
“It’s sushi,” Brian said.  
  
“No, it’s not. It was a test. Justin sent you on a pointless errand--in the pouring rain no less--to get him something he doesn’t even want just to see if you’d do it. Do you see that?”  
  
Brian was slow to respond, but then he came around, “Yeah.”  
  
“Why did he do that?”  
  
“To screw with me?”  
  
“Try again.”  
  
……  
  
Brian stared at you like he was on Jeopardy…and losing…  
  
“Remember I told you at lunch that I don’t do couple’s counseling?”  
  
“So, what? Now you’re backing out?”  
  
“No, listen to me,” you said, handing him back the bag of sushi, “This is not about your marriage, Brian; this is about the basic foundation of your relationship.”  
  
“Our relationship is founded on sushi?”  
  
“Sort of. It’s a meal, Brian. It’s symbolic. Justin’s in a really, really low place right now; he wants to know that someone’s still there taking care of him.”  
  
“So I bring dinner—"  
  
“And you leave me alone while I set the table.”  
  
He agreed and the elevator began to move.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_I can’t light no more of your darkness_  
  
Upon entering the suite and per Jon’s request, you opened the door to your still darkened bedroom to see if Justin was where you left him, and he was, still lying on his side, only he was under the covers at that point, still staring out the window. “I’m back,” you said from the doorway.  
  
He answered but didn’t turn to look at you, “’Kay, I was getting worried.”  
  
“It’s raining really hard,” you said.  
  
“I know.” You stepped inside the room and stripped off your wet shirt, digging for a dry one in your suitcase, fighting the urge to go over and just get in bed with him. “What’re you doing?” he asked.  
  
“Changing my shirt; got rained on.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
You looked back over your shoulder at Jon standing in the outer room; he nodded at you, so you turned back to Justin, making a last ditch effort, “Wanna come eat?”  
  
“Not hungry,” he said. “Maybe later.”  
  
“Okay…if you change your mind—"  
  
……  
  
“Can you shut the door?” he asked. “I kind of have a headache.”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you said, exiting the room and pulling it shut behind you.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_and it all comes down to you_  
  
“I can’t stand this,” you whispered to Jon, stopping him as he walked toward the closed door, “I feel so fucking helpless; I want to pick up something and smash it.”  
  
“He knows that, Brian. That’s why he won’t talk to you. He’s trying to protect you from yourself.”  
  
You sat down in the edge of a wingback chair perched outside the door, “I can’t just let you walk in there; I just physically can’t. I have to let him know that you’re here…and why you’re here.”  
  
Jon sat down on the sofa, his elbows on his knees as he re-grouped, “Is this the quirky super-hero side of you peeking out?” he asked.  
  
“I guess so,” you sighed. “It doesn’t make sense, I know. He can come here for six years or forever, and I can deal with that, but I can’t deal with this. I just can’t.”  
  
“Kryptonite?” he mused.  
  
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”  
  
……  
  
It just felt like something you had to do, take one more stab at it, and just like the second night after Justin's return two months earlier, it was once again dark and raining, and he was lying down—only his restraints were no longer soft, black leather; they were something much stronger and much more sinister—invisible and sunken beneath his skin--although you truly believed that both sets were equally your doing. There would be no need for him to turn on a light, shed the comforter, or remove his clothing for you to see the damage you’d done.  
  
So again you opened the door to your top floor bedroom, closing it behind you, and walked over to your bed, sitting down on the edge as he bent his knees to make room for you; your hand resting on his thigh. His eyes flitted briefly in your direction and then back at the window and then to the floor to the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the wall.  
  
You had no idea what to say or where to start, and then you heard Jon’s question again echoing in your head: ‘Kryptonite?’  
  
*********************  
  
  
_I’m only a man in a funny red sheet_  
  
Perhaps because you were touching him, maybe there was some sort of transference at that moment, something that allowed you to see yourself in Justin as he lay there suffering in silence, and though you’d chastised yourself earlier for everything else you’d exposed him to over the years, this part of him was emerging as the most toxic of all, reeking of your cancerous example, beautiful and sick and right in front of your face, splattered on canvases and proudly sold with emotional collateral.  
  
Indeed, everything does have a price.  
  
……  
  
For all the wealth you’d amassed over the years, you’d been woefully ignorant of some of life’s most basic transactions.  
  
……  
  
“What’s the matter?” he asked you, shifting on the mattress, his body curling into a more fetal position.  
  
You figured you’d start with the obvious, “I’m worried about you.”  
  
He immediately looked away, “I don’t feel good; I’m just tired.”  
  
……  
  
Another echo from earlier that evening… _’Nor you as impenetrable.’_  
  
……  
  
You smiled at him, and he smiled back—sort of—kind of one of those conciliatory _will you leave me alone now?_ smiles, the kind you give Ted when you want him to leave your office because you really don’t care about first quarter filing deadlines at four thirty on a Friday afternoon, but mentally—emotionally—you were in your office again, only this time it was _years_ ago facing someone much more tenacious that Theodore…  
  
“ _He’s not my responsibility.”  
  
“Oh yes, he is…. You seduced him… you…fucked him…”_  
  
……  
  
And you love him.  
  
So, you decided, for Justin’s sake and for once in your life and with the blessing of a little hindsight, you’d be the first to show him that the plank was safe to walk, “Sit up for a second.”  
  
“Why?” he asked.  
  
“Just for a second.”  
  
So he did, making a production out of re-arranging the sheets, crossing his legs, getting comfortable again, “What?”  
  
You took his right hand, slowly, and put it on the back of your head, “Feel that? That bump?”  
  
His eyes narrowed as he pulled you forward a little and then let you go, “What the hell?”  
  
You took his hand back, holding it on purpose, so you could feel his reaction as you told him, “I passed out today in front of Dan’s place…from seeing the…you know…on the sidewalk.”  
  
“What? When? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, pulling his hand away, getting up on his knees, “Jesus Christ, Brian.”  
  
“It’s okay. Jon was with me, luckily, because of him, I didn’t smack the pavement.”  
  
“Oh my god,” and he was leaning across the bed, turning on the lamp on the nightstand, and when he made his way back to you, he was on his knees yet again trying to get a better look, but you put your hands on his waist, effectively sitting him back down.  
  
“And he’s here now; he’s in the other room.”  
  
Justin’s eyes were searching your face for an explanation, “He is?”  
  
“Didn’t you hear us talking out there?” you asked him.  
  
“I thought you were talking back to the TV.”  
  
(That was the moment you realized that the true definition of marriage is the conjoining of a tall person to a short person so that over time, the short person can develop a fairly disparaging view of the tall person, keeping it completely to himself until it comes out at a really fucked up moment. Marriage is nothing if not an education.)  
  
“Um, no…I wasn’t talking to the television. Jon, he wants to talk to you.”  
  
“He does?”  
  
“Yeah, but I’m gonna wait out there because I get kind of light-headed when I talk about it for too long. Is that okay?”  
  
……  
  
Justin studied your face, his hands on your chest, “No, it’s not okay. If you feel light-headed, you lie down in here; I’ll go out there and talk to him.” You smiled at him, and he leaned in and kissed you, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Brian. You need to lie down. Does it hurt? Do you need to put ice on it?”  
  
“No, Florence Nightingale. It doesn’t hurt. It’s okay.”  
  
“Honest to god, I cannot believe this. I have to piss; tell him I’ll be there in a second.”  
  
And when he disappeared into the bathroom, you moved quickly, opening the door to the outer room. Jon stood up immediately, “Well?”  
  
“He’s going to come out here to talk to you; I’ll be in here…’resting.’”  
  
Jon looked a little puzzled, and you heard Justin flush, so you explained in as few words as possible, “I did you a favor…let’s just call it _The Cure of the Magi._”  
  
……  
  
Jon smiled at you. He understood.  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_so if you’re mad,  
get mad_  
  
The distinction between ad exec and psychiatrist is one of compression and intensity. Both are able to extract your hopes, dreams, fears, desires, and secrets from you for an obscene amount of money, but what a psychiatrist does over ten years, an ad exec does in less than a minute. And thus Brian, your new partner in time, had successfully launched round two.  
  
You hadn’t worked this hard in one day since your residency when you’d be on for four days straight on the psych ward, sporting a spotty beard as you discharged a patient on day four whom you’d just met pressed and clean-shaven on day one. Nothing like a suicide watch measured by whiskers, Diet Coke, Cheese Nips and an occasional intern or med student in the abandoned ECT room. That was never Daniel’s style, though.  
  
He had a thing for Orville Redenbacher.  
  
Justin’s body emerged from the bedroom before the rest of him because he was still talking to Brian…, “ _If you need me, just call me…”_ , so you waited on the sofa for the rest of him to come into the room, quietly fusing your internal armor together with a very quiet blow torch. You heard the television click on in the bedroom as Justin closed the door, and then he surprised you with his hospitality, “Do you want something to drink?”  
  
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” you said, your head turning to follow him to the bar where he opened a mini-bottle of Jim Beam, poured it into a glass, and you thought—for a second—was going to take it to Brian, but he didn’t. He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, drank about half of it, and set it down on the glass coffee table with a very commanding _thunk._  
  
(Okay, maybe you should’ve taken him up on his offer.)  
  
His arms folded across his chest like they were following orders, one leg tucked under the other as he leaned back against the arm rest and began, “You wanted to talk to me? Talk.”  
  
Nothing like having an audience with the Queen.  
  
Your mind began to run backwards very, very fast looking for an open door…and then you ran past one that was wide open and something inside it reached out, grabbed you, and sucked you inside…  
  
…" _I did you a favor, let’s just call it The Cure of the Magi…_ "  
  
You took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like they were going to be in short supply for a while, “I need to talk to you about Brian—"  
  
“I think you mean apologize.”  
  
The thing that grabbed you, that had you by the hair, it looked at you and began to feed you answers telepathically, _Yes, that’s exactly what you mean,_ so you doubled back, “Right, apologize. That’s what I meant.”  
  
“Because this is your fault--yours and Daniel’s. If you hadn’t pulled that bullshit with the chair this morning, this wouldn’t have happened.”  
  
Well, he wasn’t completely off base, “You’re probably right.”  
  
“When did it happen?” Justin demanded. “When did he get hurt?”  
  
“After we moved the chairs. We were outside smoking—"  
  
“You don’t smoke.”  
  
“You’re right; I don’t. He offered, so I agreed, then he saw the stain on the sidewalk…and then what happened last night, happened again.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘What happened last night?’”  
  
You stole another quick breath, suddenly feeling like the air in that room no longer belonged to you, “He had another break. He saw the stain again; he bent down to look at it; I thought he was trying to stub out his cigarette, and then his eyes fixated on the butt, rolled back in his head, and he tipped backwards.”  
  
“So he fainted basically?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me, Jonathon?”  
  
“Brian was conscious and aware of his surroundings; he knew what had happened. That was his call.” The anger on Justin’s face was unlike anything you’d ever seen on him, “I stayed with him until you saw him at Daniel’s. I took care of him.”  
  
“ _You_ took care of him,” Justin repeated back to you, supplying the verbal audacity he clearly thought you should have employed.  
  
“Yeah, I stayed with him until I was sure he was out of the woods.”  
  
……  
  
There was a rather blank expression forming on Justin’s face, a thick distance stretching between you, the silence filling with what Brian had told you earlier…” _The rest of him is completely shut down. I tried to talk to him, he’s not the least bit interested in what I have to say…”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
When Justin finally spoke again, he was different, no longer actively angry, but something else, something you couldn’t define right away, “Brian told me that he can’t talk about what happened because it makes him feel like he’s going to faint again.”  
  
“It does,” you said, “We talked for several hours afterwards. He didn’t faint again, but he did vomit. He has real physical symptoms surfacing now.”  
  
……  
  
And again he stared at you, like there was a several second delay in your communication, like he was waiting for a translator to finish feeding him the information. His eyes began to squint, “So if he hadn’t come to New York with me…I mean, he shouldn’t be here, right?”  
  
“I don’t think being here is really the issue, actually.” Justin’s eyes opened again, like perhaps they were giving you one more chance so you elaborated, “I think it’s much more complicated than that…or much more simple than that, depending on your point of view.”  
  
He was wringing his hands in his lap, unconnected from his body, “Huh?”  
  
You couldn’t tell where he was with all of this information; he was impossible to read; you felt like you were chasing him through an invisible forest, one that he knew like the back of his hand, one that was going to land you flat on the ground with a branch through your skull; he had an escape route; you didn’t…  
  
But what’s a deadly game of tag between friends?  
  
You kept chasing him, catching up to him for only a few seconds at any given time, using those precious moments to try to make a point, “You remember when I met Richard, right? The circumstances, I mean?” Justin nodded, seeming tired of hearing your voice. “I was counseling someone who’d supposedly had an exorcism performed on them, remember?”  
  
“Yeah, that was fucked up.”  
  
“Brian’s one of the few people I’ve met who needs one, Justin, figuratively speaking. This thing inside him, it wants out.” Justin’s blue-eyed gaze almost burned your face, “I think he feels like someone is there for him, that you’re there for him now; you’ve come back; he’s ready—although he didn’t understand it until now--to let it go.”  
  
You were instantly corrected, “That’s very easy for you to sit there and say, but you don’t know Brian. He can’t handle that; you saw him last night; you saw what happens when it comes out.”  
  
……  
  
“That’s not what I saw last night, Justin. I saw what happens when he tries to keep it in.”

  
*********************

**JUSTIN'S POV**  
  
  
_at night I could hear the blood in my veins  
just as black and whispering as the rain_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_so alone I keep the wolves at bay_  
  
You knew you were going to have your work cut out for you…anyone in a relationship with a man like Brian Kinney would have to have strands of steel knit throughout his personality, but figuring out the pattern, predicting it even, was going to be interesting because its existence was as obvious as its characteristics were confidential. It was quite clearly part of the deal. And so as a priest is an earthly man’s link to god, you had to very carefully, very painstakingly become a bridge for Justin, a way for him to safely step out a little and view some of the most treasured and buried artifacts of his relationship without falling victim to the years of decay. It wouldn’t be the majestic Golden Gate Bridge as you might have preferred, more like an abandoned rope bridge whose underside was occupied by a cantankerous troll...  
  
“So it’s because I came back,” he whispered as if the words didn’t deserve to be voiced.  
  
“Justin,” you said; your voice having completely changed; you could feel the burden of his agony breathing inside you.  
  
“That’s what you said. I’m home now—"  
  
“No,” you clarified, “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
……  
  
The amorphous images you’d always had of Justin’s psyche, the ones that generously decorated Daniel’s walls, they began to reform in your mind because he’d finally stopped running, you’d caught up to him, but now adrenaline was pumping through you for an entirely different reason. He was no longer running because he was no longer breathing. He’d stopped in this dark, terrifying place—dead in his tracks--and your only choice was to pick him up and carry him. This was what Brian meant, you thought, when he described his words bouncing off Justin as if he was made of rubber. There was a vacancy filling him as he sat across from you, he seemed unhappy about it, but not altogether uncomfortable. The yellow papers Daniel had given you earlier were still folded in your pocket…  
  
_it’s like there’s a giant hole that’s always two feet surrounding me in every direction wherever I go now…  
spewing out these clumps of dirt caked with the stench of this neglected anger…  
that’s been rotting beneath me for fucking forever…_  
  
It was as if he was standing in his own grave; he’d refused to stop running until he found it.  
  
And the ceremony had already started.  
  
And just as you suspected from talking to Daniel and Brian and reading Justin’s notes earlier that day, Alan was the only one in attendance. Justin no longer identified with the living.  
  
This thing inside Brian that Justin had eaten, he’d swallowed it whole and was determined to kill and bury it in an unmarked grave with no regard for either of its hosts.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_a light hits the gloom on the grey_  
  
Justin was a much different animal than Brian once you got beneath the surface, beneath the territorial male trying to protect his turf, his life force even, and began to find the motive, you found something very interesting down there. At his core, you felt like Brian was acting from a single-minded vantage point, doing what he thought all along was best for Justin, but Justin, on the other hand, was doing what he thought was best for both of them. It was a very subtle, very odd distinction to see, especially in two people who’d spent the majority of their relationship apart—truly apart. And now that you’d finally caught up to Justin amid the woods that had enveloped both of you, you had a real decision to make: get in that grave with him and battle the quicksand or stand aboveground on the edge and hope that the sound of your voice, that something you were saying would keep him from sinking, would pull him outside of himself so he could truly see something besides his own reflection…  
  
And so you began, “Justin, how do you feel about attending Alan’s funeral tomorrow?”  
  
“I feel like I can’t,” he said, a sadness in his voice that was born in that grave.  
  
“Can’t?”  
  
“I can’t see myself there,” he said as the anger, the mask he was wearing began to fracture, slowly, like spider cracks in the foundation of a house, starting at the bottom of his face but moving slyly upward, chipping away at the porcelain veneer…  
  
“Where _do_ you see yourself?”  
  
His face was slowly becoming red and swollen revealing the pain below…  
  
“I see Brian and I on a plane tonight going back home…”  
  
“Hmm…”  
  
“I made him go out… I mean, I didn’t know he’d gotten hurt;” his eyes began to reveal the vulnerabilities in his emotional dam; “I would never have asked him if…”  
  
“Of course not,” you reassured him.  
  
“I made him go out because I needed to think, to decide if I wanted to go home.”  
  
“What would happen if you stayed here tonight but didn’t go to the funeral in the morning?” you asked trying to gauge his frame of mind.  
  
“Then tomorrow never gets here,” he said.  
  
You leaned forward and wrapped your hand around his folded arms, every muscle in his body was strung tight trying to hold it together.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“So whether you stay here or go home tonight, everything fades to black before morning? You feel like there’s no resolution?”  
  
……  
  
There was no need for him to answer your question.  
  
……  
  
He couldn’t; you reached out…he was, first and foremost, your friend in all of this.  
  
……  
  
You prayed that Brian wouldn’t hear him and come out and stop the flow.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_they say time is a healer,  
and now my wounds are not the same_  
  
There was nothing on television that could hold your attention for more than five minutes. The pay-per-view porn wasn’t worth the pay or the view.

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_and there he was this young boy,  
a stranger to my eyes_  
  
Justin apologized repeatedly because he couldn’t stop crying, that he didn’t know why, and when he pulled away from you and tried to regain control of himself, he wouldn’t look up, staring instead at the wad of tissues in his hand that you’d been feeding him over the last several minutes. His composure would only last for so long; his body would twitch, fighting him until it overcame him and broke through, a pattern that would repeat itself over and over as you talked. Perhaps Justin’s exterior resembled Brian’s initially, but this wounded underbelly was something altogether different. You knew you were only seeing it because the conditions were exactly right. Justin was exactly like Brian in that regard—inextricably complicated—so much so that, like Brian, he often appeared simple to the naked eye. The rain was softening outside, the eye of the storm had finally entered the room.  
  
You spoke—very softly--because every sound he made was being strangled on its way out, “This is really painful for you.” He nodded. “The weight of this; this feels like old pain to me.” He nodded again; his eyes filling up again. “Okay.” You placed the box the Kleenex on the sofa between the two of you and stopped talking for a minute.  
  
……  
  
“Can I ask you something?” you asked him after he started to calm down.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“This pain that you’re feeling right now; is it all yours?”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_frozen here on the ladder of my life_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_listen to the man talkin’ ‘bout the meaning_  
  
He didn’t answer you right away, so you just waited patiently until finally…“Yes.”  
  
“How do you know?” you asked.  
  
“Because I can feel it.”  
  
“What does it feel like?”  
  
“Don’t know how to describe it.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Okay,” you said, “What you’re feeling…are you sure it’s pain?”  
  
Justin looked at you like your head had become temporarily disconnected from your body, “Uh, yeah.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“ _Jon._ ”  
  
“Just humor me, okay?”  
  
“Fine,” he sighed, “I know it’s pain because it hurts.”  
  
“And that’s not a good thing right? To hurt? It’s not something you want?”  
  
And again, he scolded you and again you asked for and were given a little leeway, “No, it’s not a good thing.”  
  
“And you don’t want it?”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Give it to me. I’ll take it… Just for tonight. You can have it back tomorrow after the funeral.”  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, “That’s completely idiotic.”  
  
“I’m serious; I want to help. If it’s your pain, if it belongs to you, if it’s in your possession, give it to me. I’ll carry that burden for you so that you can get through tomorrow. I’ll lighten your load.”  
  
He laughed at you, “That’s a nice idea, but that’s impossible.”  
  
“Why? You don’t think I can handle it? I’m a doctor; that’s what doctors do—relieve pain.”  
  
“No, I’m sure you can—in theory--but it’s not that easy.”  
  
“Why not? What makes it so hard?”  
  
……  
  
He looked at his fingernails; they’d suddenly become extremely fascinating, and then looked up at you again, slamming the proverbial door in your face, “This is dumb. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You ran around and went in through the window, “Okay, okay…that was a little out there, let’s work it backwards. Let’s imagine that I left here with your pain ten minutes ago, and you don’t have it anymore, how would you feel?”  
  
……  
  
He rolled his eyes at you but answered you anyway, “Anxious and kind of pissed.”  
  
……  
  
“Okay.” His arms crossed and a crease formed on his forehead as you questioned him, “Why pissed?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You nudged him with your foot, “It’s okay, say whatever you want.”  
  
……  
  
“I feel really scared.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“But that feels really stupid… to feel that way.”  
  
“What’s the fear about?”  
  
“That feels even dumber.”  
  
“That’s okay, sometimes dumb is just something that’s never seen the light of day.”  
  
……  
  
The expression on his face when he spoke, it was as if he couldn’t quite accept that some part of him was letting the words he was saying escape his lips, “I feel like you won’t take care of it; you’ll ruin it. That when I get it back, it won’t feel like it did.”  
  
“Okay. And that’s important to you, that it feel the same?”  
  
“Yes, I guess. I don’t know why.”  
  
“That’s okay, keep going.”  
  
“The whole time it’s gone, I can’t relax like I’m supposed to, I feel frantic, panicky—"  
  
“Like it’s your little baby?”  
  
“Yeah,” he admitted, shaking his head, “I don’t want a babysitter?”  
  
You were proud of him for staying in the moment when he was clearly uncomfortable, “How do you feel physically while I have it?”  
  
“Lighter but ungrounded, like I can’t hold on to a thought for more a few seconds,” he said. “It’s fucked up; I don’t feel like myself.”  
  
……  
  
And so you asked, “Have I walked away with your pain or your identity?”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_you used to think that it was so easy  
you used to say that it was so easy_

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_and then he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there_  
  
“I don’t know what you want me to say to that.”  
  
“It’s just a question. Can you answer it?” He shook his head. “Okay.” You were both quiet for about thirty seconds until you asked him, “If you could do anything you wanted right now to feel better, what would you do?”  
  
He didn’t hesitate even a quarter of a second, “I want to be with him.”  
  
“With Brian?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said quietly, breaking eye contact with you.  
  
“Because it would make you feel better or because you’re worried about him?”  
  
“I’m worried about him, and if I know he’s okay, then—"  
  
“You’ll feel better?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Go get him.”  
  
He looked surprised and then like he might take you up on it but backed down, “No, no, he’s resting. I don’t want to bother him.”  
  
“You’d rather suffer?” you asked.  
  
“I’d rather talk to him in private,” he shot back like a rubber band.  
  
“Fair enough…although…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I find it interesting how guarded you are about your relationship with him. You’ve been with him for over a decade; you’re married, and yet it feels like a matter of national security. I mean, I’m dating a closeted priest, and I think that’s more widely known…”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, why?” you asked, getting comfortable on the sofa. If he didn’t want to bring Brian out, didn’t want to lessen the heat on himself, that was fine with you…and interesting…  
  
“Why are you dating a closeted priest?” he asked.  
  
Classic redirection; you were poking a sore spot, “No, why do you hide behind this mystical entity of your relationship with Brian? What are you afraid of?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Losing him.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_if I could escape  
I would, but first of all let me say  
I must apologize for acting,  
stinking,  
treating you this way, _  
  
Desperate times call for desperate measures which meant the inevitable Parade of Vices, all of them far too happy to be marching past you in a continuous loop with absurd smiles on their faces. You pretended that you were tied to the bed, and therefore unable to indulge yourself.  
  
But then that just made you horny.

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_here’s a riddle for you,  
find the answer_  
  
Justin believed he was telling the truth, but the whole truth and nothing but?  
  
Not exactly.  
  
Some people drag their heels when they don’t want to admit something, other’s hesitate when don’t know exactly how to cover something up, but Justin’s answer wasn’t in either of those categories. His answer was somehow vague.  
  
You weren’t sure that he understood why he was so afraid, and that was where you wanted to spend some time because you were becoming convinced that somewhere in the atmosphere of the planet of their relationship, you’d actually find Justin, floating by aimlessly all by himself, wondering how the hell he got stuck in that orbit.  
  
“Justin, how did you feel after Harper got married, after Amelia was born?”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Kind of pissed.”  
  
You laughed, “Why?”  
  
“Because I was kind of jealous and because I wanted her to be there in the studio with me; I missed her and everything… I mean, Alan would even come by; he missed her. We’d both eat lunch together and talk about how we missed her, you know?” He stopped for a minute, lost in the moment, the memory of Alan, “It was stupid, my jealousy.”  
  
“That’s not stupid.” He shrugged his shoulders at your opinion. “I mean, I can understand that reaction considering that you’re perfectly capable of carrying on a long term, long distance relationship and being in the studio full-time, and hell, you can even date other people on the side and go to the occasional orgy.”  
  
He busted out laughing, “Shut up; it’s not the same thing.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because it’s not.”  
  
“I can assure you that Sam’s love for Harper is just as insane as Brian’s love for you,” you told him. “And that the reverse is also true.”  
  
And again he laughed; it was nice to see him smile, “It’s still not the same; our relationship is completely different.”  
  
“How is it so different besides the obvious homo/hetero thing?”  
  
He became more serious, more soft-spoken, “We have a different history.”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_so who does your past belong to today?_  
  
History....  
  
Sometimes history is a record that skips, sometimes it’s _Abbey Road_ , but sometimes it's now, right now, sometimes you know you're a part of it and other times, well, it's a part of you..or all of you…renting more and more space inside you...a predatory tenant scrawling on your rent-controlled walls.  
  
Sometimes you think it's not about you; you think you're in someone else's house--keeping it clean, mowing the grass, getting the mail, making sure it looks lived in, and that’s where you saw Justin that night...his burdened silhouette through the sparkling clean windows...one light on to warn trespassers to stay away. And that was what was so enigmatic about all of it because Justin knew he was coming back all along; you were convinced of that. Brian didn’t, but Justin did because he believed he was acting on both of their behalves. And yet even though he’d ingested Brian’s pain, his fears ran parallel to Brian’s, never intersecting. Justin was unbelievably determined to keep them that way:  
  
“ _Because it’s important to you that it feel the same?_ ”  
  
According to Aristotle, art is one of the four wisdoms, and since it's generally the conduit for fear, joy, pain, and love, a way to express it, to feel it, to see it, to let it go, you found it odd and a bit worrisome that Justin was purposely painting as far away from Brian as he could, and often with as little effort as he could, and unable to lift a paintbrush once they were finally reunited. He was determined that that particular part of their pasts never came face to face.  
  
This was where you had to start, with the past he was living in today and then begin to pull him out of the forest to get him back to where it all started. You weren’t overly optimistic about his voluntarily participation.  
  
“Speaking of your history, can I ask why you came to New York six years ago?”  
  
“To become an artist," he replied, staring at you like the question was utterly banal and that you were a lower life form for asking it.  
  
“So you left when you felt you’d achieved that?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I make a decent living at it.”  
  
“So that was the dream? To come here, get discovered or something, make a decent living and return home?”  
  
“I guess so.”  
  
“I don’t buy it. Sounds way too pedestrian to me. That’s the dream of someone who’s forty-three, who’s been around the block, knows the true market value and limitations of their talent. That’s not the dream of a twenty-one year old artist leaving everything behind to come to the Big Apple.”  
  
“That’s your opinion.”  
  
“Especially not someone who was almost dead at eighteen, who’s lucky to be alive, who’s educated, attractive, who’s worked in Hollywood and knows what he’s capable of.”  
  
“Who told you that?” he challenged you.  
  
“Told me what?”  
  
“That I was in California?”  
  
“Brian did, at lunch today.”  
  
“What’d he tell you?”  
  
“You illustrated a comic book; it got optioned for a movie, went out there; it tanked, and you came back home. That the story was autobiographical—"  
  
“Right, it was about Brian.”  
  
“No, _auto_ biographical, as in he said it was about _you._ ”  
  
Justin shook off the suggestion as if Brian made those sort of mistakes all the time, “It was about _him_. He was the superhero, _Rage._ ”  
  
“You weren’t in the story?” you asked feigning confusion.  
  
“No, I was. I was his…love interest…J.T.”  
  
“What made Rage so heroic?” you asked.  
  
“He saved Gayopolis. You know dumb superhero stuff.”  
  
“Okay, so he was this really angry gay guy who went around saving gay people?”  
  
“ _No_. Well, okay…yeah…sort of…it was really pretty stupid, actually. It was just…a long time ago.”  
  
“Did he save J.T. in the comic book?”  
  
Justin rolled his eyes at you; you were quite clearly the most annoying person on the planet at that moment and employed a sarcastic tone that accompanies every teenager you ever counsel, “ _Yes_ , he saved J.T. J.T. was the first person he ever saved in the story, and then he took him back to his lair and fucked his virgin brains out. Would you like me to autograph an autobiographical copy and send it to you? I have a box of them somewhere.”  
  
“I’d love a copy.”  
  
“Signed copy might go for a dollar ninety-nine on eBay,” he quipped.  
  
“Must be worth more than that to you.”  
  
“Not really,” he lied.  
  
“What happens to J.T’s attackers in the story? What does Rage do to them?”  
  
Justin sighed like you were a puppy that just wouldn’t stop peeing on the floor, “Rage has mind control powers; he fucks with his head, his and the other attackers; he tricks them into thinking they’re all fags, and they kill each other.”  
  
That was probably one of the most telling things Justin had ever revealed to you in his entire life.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Why didn’t you let Rage zoom J.T. back to safety and then come back and beat the ever-loving shit out of his bashers?”  
  
……  
  
“You know, I thought you wanted to talk to me about Brian.”  
  
“We are talking about Brian. Why didn’t you let him?”  
  
……  
  
“I worked on that comic as the illustrator.”  
  
“Okay, why wouldn’t you _draw_ him zooming J.T. to safety and then beating up his bashers?”  
  
……  
  
He looked at his watch, “It’s late. I should check on him—"  
  
“If you’re really concerned about him, you’ll answer my question.”  
  
“Fine. Because it’s uncivilized.”  
  
“His name is ‘Rage,’ Justin. His actions cause another gay bashing. Two gay bashings are better than one? What’s civilized about that?”  
  
“You asked me; I answered you.”  
  
“Was it art imitating life? He didn’t save you; he didn’t beat Chris to a pulp, so you couldn’t extend him that privilege in the story?”  
  
……  
  
The anger that had been front and center at the beginning of your conversation with Justin reappeared, “What happened to me is _not_ Brian’s fault. He didn’t see Chris in time to stop him. He tried to save me; there wasn’t enough time.”  
  
“Couldn't it be partly Brian's fault?” you asked, being intentionally confrontational. (After all, you were finally meeting Rage for the first time; it was the least you could do.) “I mean, come on, a thirty-year-old man with a well-known reputation as a playboy shows up unannounced at a boy’s prom, spins him around the floor, makes a spectacle out of his attraction to the young man. I mean, we’ve come pretty far as a nation, but I don’t know if we’ve come _that_ far—"  
  
“That has nothing to do with it. What Chris did to me was Chris’s idea, his decision, period. It had nothing to do with Brian. Chris and I; we had history; we had issues with one another; it was a culmination of a lot of shit.”  
  
“Okay, then if it wasn’t Brian’s fault, why is it so taboo for him to be ‘uncivilized’ about it in some fantastical version of it?”  
  
“It isn’t." (Another lie.)  
  
“You just told me it was. His hands don’t get bloody because it’s uncivilized. When does Rage get to be pissed off?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“This is idiotic. You’re asking me a hypothetical question about a fucking comic book character.”  
  
“Okay, fine. Let’s make it real. When is it going to be okay for Brian to be angry about what happened to you?”  
  
*********************  
  
  
_in and out of hiding places_  
  
Justin stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with you—throw you out, smack you upside the head, or just admit that you were speaking in a language he didn’t want to understand. You let him think about it for a minute…because this was a rather big knot in Justin’s proverbial ball of yarn. Brian, right or wrong, good or bad, spent his life making decisions about everything; he was doing it every hour of every day—in the board room, the bedroom…  
  
“ _Who officiated?”  
  
“My dick.”_  
  
…and everywhere in between. Brian was a college graduate, a father, an entrepreneur, a self-made man, a partner, a CEO, a millionaire, and yet Justin, although intelligent, talented, and determined, wasn’t a decision maker. You didn’t expect him to agree with you about that because in addition to being intelligent and determined, Justin was also somewhat proud. You had to tread lightly because there was a very good reason why he wasn’t making decisions. Decisions bring change.  
  
So you extended a temporary olive branch and let him off the hook, “You know, you’re right, Justin. It’s not Brian’s fault, what happened to you. Not at all.”  
  
“I know that,” he said, hesitant to enjoy a bit of suspicious relief.  
  
“So if it’s not his fault, what’s the harm in him getting a little pissed off about it?”  
  
And he did not appreciate the fake out, “Because Brian doesn’t know how to get just a little pissed off, Jonathon,” regretting the words as they fell out of his mouth.  
  
You leaned forward then, mimicking his posture with your elbows propped on your knees, and he immediately hung his head, unwilling to look you in the eye, “Do you remember the night Amelia was born, when Harper was in labor screaming her head off?”  
  
“Yes,” he told the carpet.  
  
“You remember Sam? How he was a fucking mess? How Harper finally asked for an Epidural and when it got there, she told them to give it to him?”  
  
“It was too late for her,” he said. “She was too far gone.”  
  
“So is Brian. He’s too far gone, Justin. You can’t have this baby for him. It’s his.”  
  
“Jon.”  
  
“I’m serious, Justin. I’m not trying to be funny; you’re a creative person, maybe you can understand it this way.” He looked up at you then. “I think you came here because you thought you were pregnant.”  
  
“Would you please not be retarded?”  
  
“I’m not. Work with me here. You’re pregnant with this pain Justin. You went to Hollywood and tried to have this baby, and they said no; they didn’t want it. You came back and tried to find a way to have it with Brian, but he wasn’t ready to have it, so you left again. You came here to have it, and once you thought you’d done it and found a good home for it, you went back to Brian.”  
  
“I think you’re crazy.”  
  
“And I know why you’re so angry, Justin—because Brian adopted your baby that’s really his anyway, and you didn’t know it until you got back.”  
  
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”  
  
“You don’t want this baby.”  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“And I don’t blame you, Justin. Because it’s really ugly and _it’s not yours._ ”  
  
“Now I really need a shrink.” (Granted, he was being a wise ass, but he was listening to you. Everybody takes their medicine in their own way.)  
  
“You wanna know why it’s so ugly?”  
  
“Sure. Why the hell not?”  
  
You reached out and held his hands because this was the part that was going to feel the most like childbirth. You knew that Justin knew what you were about to tell him, he just wasn’t letting himself integrate into his conscious thought, “I’m not joking around anymore.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“This baby is hideously ugly because what Brian’s going through didn’t start ten years ago Justin. It didn’t start with Chris Hobbs. This baby was conceived the first time Brian's father laid a hand on him--which was before you were even born."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He pulled his hands away and wiped his tears, “I know that, okay? I know. This is why I don’t…”  
  
“Want him to feel it?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I know. But not letting him feel it, trying to cut his emotions off at the pass for him by replacing things before he can see the damage he’s done, for instance, that’s hurting him, too, because all that does is effectively shove it back inside him. Does that make sense?”  
  
He held his face in his hands, “Yeah.”  
  
“And because of what happened to you, Justin, it’s trapped him and you, quite frankly, in a scary dynamic because he will always blame himself for what happened to you until he deals with it, and when you stop him or shut him down when he's trying to deal with it--"  
  
“I don’t shut him down.”  
  
“Didn’t you throw something at him when he tried to talk to you about it?”  
  
“Oh god, he told you that?”  
  
“And when you shut him down, he will always stop because he’s thinks he’s protecting you when in reality he’s hurting himself.”  
  
“I’m not trying to hurt him,” Justin insisted.  
  
“I know that. You’re trying to protect him; he’s trying to protect you, but somewhere along the way, your communication has completely broken down, Justin, and the goal of all of this protecting has gotten lost.”  
  
“It didn’t break down; we never had any.”  
  
“Okay, okay. That’s not uncommon in these situations. What happened to you-- It’s not surprising, Justin. These kind of tragedies, especially when they involve someone as young as you were; they destroy people; they tear families apart—"  
  
And then you stopped because of the look on Justin’s face.  
  
……  
  
Your words rewound and began to play back in your head: … _tragedies…they destroy people…they…tear…families…apart…_  
  
……  
  
“Justin, I need to ask you something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We agree that what happened to you is not Brian’s fault, right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And the guy who attacked you, I realize he’s dead and gone now, but at the time he basically got a slap on the wrist, correct?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Okay, so who got punished for this crime?”  
  
“Nobody, I guess.”  
  
You asked the question a little differently, “Who suffered the greatest loss because of this crime?”  
  
“I don’t really know.”  
  
So you tried one more time, same question, completely different format, “Why were you willing to recommit the crime in your comic book, to actually draw another gay bashing, one that was even more graphic and violent and let fags kill fags and call it justice?”  
  
“Jon, can we just please drop this? I need to know how to help Brian.”  
  
“Why do you think you deserve what happened to you, Justin?”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Because it’s a lot easier to lose yourself in Brian’s all-encompassing guilt over this than deal with your own?”  
  
"No—"  
  
“Because if you deserved what happened to you then what happened to Brian is your fault, too?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No what?”  
  
“Just no. You’re wrong.”  
  
“About what? What am I wrong about?”  
  
“You’re just wrong about everything,” he declared.  
  
“Somebody got punished for this crime, Justin. It’s karma. It’s the law of the universe. _Who_ paid for this crime?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
  
  
_want some whiskey in your water?_  
  
Whoever said, ‘Time stands still for no man,’ had never met you.

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
  
  
_I've been cheated  
been mistreated_  
  
In many ways, all you had to do was get Justin in the kitchen—albeit no easy task--and he could set his own table.  
  
During your conversation with Justin that night, you were almost hyper-conscious of the degree and frequency with which he slid up and down the chronological age-continuum. At the beginning of the conversation, he seemed older than his years; halfway through he’d lost twenty years easy, and in between he was all over the place, and this was dicey because his emotional reactions and awareness would often fluctuate at the same time, and what he could handle on one end of the continuum, he wouldn’t be able to handle ten minutes later on the other. The irony was that the reason for this sat squarely on the young end of the continuum, but his ability to hear you and process it resided on the other. So many times that evening you felt like he was regressing before your eyes, like he was a teenager again, but not anymore. He was trying to sit up straight as he spoke to you, the ten years that had passed since the night he was attacked forming scaffolding inside him; he was morphing into a man right in front of you--a man telling you about the boy he used to be. You listened carefully because you suspected he’d never told anyone this before.  
  
He repeated your question, asking himself for the answer, speaking as if you weren’t even in the room, “Who paid for this crime?” And then he was quiet for about twenty seconds, conflict spreading all over his face. “I suppose if you asked me, 'Who didn’t?' I could give you a more precise answer." You remained silent. He shifted on the sofa, his body as uncomfortable with the subject matter as he was. He looked out the window, toward the closed door separating he and Brian, toward the doorway that led to the elevator—the escape route, to the seam on his jeans, a loose thread refusing to be set free.  
  
And still, you said nothing.  
  
……  
  
When he finally opened his mouth, his eyes were fixed on the back of the sofa, a compromise of sorts between looking out the window and looking at you, “That bat, when Chris swung it, it smashed a lot more than my head.” You propped your elbow on the back of the sofa, resting your head on your hand, getting at his eye level, mirroring him so he’d understand he wasn’t alone without having to interrupt him. “Everybody thinks that the injuries I suffered were the worst part of what happened to me; they have no fucking clue. Sometimes I think Brian has no fucking clue. He thinks…I mean, every time he sees my hand shake or if I make some comment about it; he thinks that’s what it’s all about.”  
  
You felt like your picture of their relationship was part of a coloring book, and Justin was starting to shade it for you. Shade it and not color it because the dimensions were that subtle. Justin was shutting Brian down partly because Brian’s perspective didn’t sit right with him—at all.  
  
“That bat fractured my entire life. It _literally_ destroyed every relationship I had. I was able to salvage a few of them, but most of them were never the same again.” He looked toward the coffee table, and you followed his gaze, reached over, and handed him the box of Kleenex. He pulled one out and wiped his eyes. “Never.”  
  
And then he finally looked at you. Finally, you'd found the shame you'd been looking for; you didn't shine a bright light on it. It was beginning to age as it should've after ten years; there was no need to reverse the process.  
  
“Collateral damage,” you said.  
  
“I’m not ashamed of being gay; it’s who I am, but I didn’t want my grandparents to have to go through what they went through when this happened to me. I didn’t want to skip every family reunion for the last ten years because all anyone wanted to say to me was how sorry they were or they have a friend who’s gay or just watch them stare at me and whisper to each other. I didn’t want my little sister to be the girl whose brother got bashed because he was a fag. She came home from school one day after I was finally back home, came into my room, and asked me if Brian was my sugar daddy, and if that’s why our dad was gone.”  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“I said, ‘No, he’s not,’ and that Brian and Dad have nothing to do with each other. My dad left us before I was even attacked.”  
  
“How did your dad respond when you were attacked?”  
  
Justin looked like he was going to laugh, but he couldn’t, “He basically didn’t.”  
  
“But you were almost killed.”  
  
“He came to see me once after I came out of my coma; I told him that I probably wouldn’t be able to draw again.”  
  
“What’d he say?”  
  
“He said, ‘You got into Dartmouth, son. Hopefully, they’ll still take you.’ I had already sent them a letter declining my acceptance. I was going to go to art school.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“I lay there and thought that I should try to get back in, and not because I wanted to go, just because I still wanted him to be proud of me.”  
  
“But you didn’t try to get back in?”  
  
“No. I got out of the hospital, went to see Brian, and that’s where all my energy went. He was an absolute fucking mess, completely convinced that it was all his fault. I could tell within twenty minutes that he didn’t think I was going to live; he didn’t say it, but I knew. I’d never seen him so utterly destroyed.”  
  
“That’s when you decided you needed to fix him, to get him back to the way he was?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess, which was kind of naive because the way he was wasn’t exactly that great either.”  
  
“What do you think would’ve happened if you hadn’t done that?”  
  
“Honestly? We wouldn’t be together today.”  
  
……  
  
He needed to get Brian back to the way he was because it was important that it feel the same. Didn't matter if it was good or bad as long as it was the same. You felt like you were finally at a place to talk to him, and that he was at a place where he could listen.  
  
“Justin, this is what I picture in my head when you talk about what happened to you and about your relationship with Brian, and granted, I don’t know every detail, so this is just my take on it."  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Not to disparage your age, but I see a boy who fell in love with a man who was already burdened with very complex issues that I think you can probably understand now because you’re dealing with many of the same kind. Brian is older than you, and the abuse he suffered began when he was very young, but I think you can probably appreciate how a seventeen-year-old couldn’t possibly fix someone dealing with what Brian’s dealing with.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And then you add the attack on top of all of that, something that compromised both of you, and what you were trying to do was essentially a Herculean task. Do you see that?”  
  
You thought you saw a bit of relief on his face and then you felt it inside of you, “Yes.”  
  
“Okay, let’s talk about why this happened because I think if you understand the reason behind it, you’ll be able to change it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I talked to Brian for several hours after he fainted today; we had a very long lunch, and in talking to him about the attack and your recovery, he made a comment that he was your ‘aftermath,’ meaning that he was the one who took care of you. Is that correct?”  
  
“Yeah, I lived with him. I was having a lot of anger issues. I was either going to be with him or go fucking ballistic, basically.”  
  
“Hence Rage was born?”  
  
He smiled, “I guess so.”  
  
“Well, at least you let him out.” Justin laughed; you continued, “So you lived with Brian who we agree was a fucking mess—those were your words; your father is gone, and you’re struggling with your physical recovery, with your emotions about being attacked, about losing all of your primary relationships, but that’s taking a backseat to caring for Brian, trying to manage his pain and keep your relationship on solid ground?”  
  
“Yeah, but—"  
  
“But what?”  
  
“When you put it that way, I don’t know I lived through it.”  
  
“You were a teenager; teenagers are invincible. Remember?”  
  
“Oh yeah. I must be getting old.”  
  
“Just wait ‘til you hit forty.”  
  
“You mean until I help Brian hit forty.”  
  
“Right, of course, my mistake.”  
  
Justin’s posture had finally relaxed; you finally felt like you were truly making progress with him. It’s always that moment in a session when you hate psychiatry because it’s such a lonely occupation; every high note you hit is confidential. It didn’t exactly mesh with your overwhelming desire to run out into the street, stop traffic, and scream, “HE WANTS THE TRUTH! HE CAN HANDLE THE TRUTH! THANK YOU, NEW YORK CITY AND GOODNIGHT!”  
  
“OH, AND BY THE WAY, I’M FUCKING A PRIEST. THAT’S RIGHT. YOU HEARD ME. _A PRIEST._ AND JESUS STILL LOVES ME BECAUSE MY HOT PRIESTLY BOYFRIEND TOLD ME SO!”  
  
So, anyway, back to reality, back to Justin…  
  
“Justin, I think the aftermath and the sushi are the two keys to this.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Leeway, please. I told Brian at lunch that I don’t do couples counseling, but I agreed to come talk to you tonight because this isn’t about your marriage.”  
  
“I’m still on ‘huh?’”  
  
“I know. Just listen. Before Brian was truly your partner, he was your primary caregiver. I know your relationship was sexual from day one, but I believe your bond was more familial.”  
  
“Okay, that equals incest.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t. Listen. Brian, despite all of his flaws and baggage, recognizes even today that because he’s significantly older you, he has another degree of responsibility for you over and above what I think he would feel if you were his age. He took care of you, and when someone is your primary caregiver, and in this case, really the only person you feel you can rely on, it’s completely normal for you to move heaven and earth to protect them in any way you can. And you were young Justin, and then young and severely traumatized. Had Brian fallen apart or been unable to function or care for you, your world would’ve collapsed, so you worked your ass off helping him shove all of this crap back inside because it meant your survival and, in your mind, his.”  
  
“Oh god.”  
  
“Everybody does it, Justin. Parents do it when they lose a child, children do it when they’re being abused and can’t fathom living without the abuser; Harper did it with Alan, covering for him, shielding him from their father, isolating him even more than he was, mothering him in Ruth's absence. It’s a completely natural response to that situation.”  
  
“It makes me feel sick.”  
  
“I know, but it’s really okay. And in your case, most of your relationship with Brian did progress, he’s your best friend in the entire world, isn’t he?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And he’s your partner; you love him…you can’t even describe it, can you?”  
  
He shook his head, “No.”  
  
“Okay, the point I’m making is that your relationship functions on all three levels; it’s like a slide rule and the two of you move back and forth, back and forth constantly. The problem comes when you don’t move in sync. Tonight when you sent him out for sushi—"  
  
“I can’t believe I did that to him.”  
  
“That’s because you’ve already moved since you did it. You were way down on the familial end when you did it and he wasn’t. You sent him to get it because you were trying to move him, to force him to move, and it worked.”  
  
“But I don’t even eat sushi.”  
  
“Right, you were really upset, and you weren’t fucking around. You were trying to kill about eighteen birds with one stone. He was _way_ on the other end of the continuum, so you went for broke. And it worked because he told the front desk to get the sushi, and he went and got me. He realized that you needed something he didn’t have; he was determined to take care of you.”  
  
“He’s so…”  
  
“Much like you? He was exactly the way you were last night when we came to get you and take you to Daniel’s. He was frantic. You really freaked him out.”  
  
“I don’t know why I can’t just talk to him.”  
  
“I think you’re afraid that talking about these things is dangerous for him, and it might not always be pleasant, but not talking about it is much worse. I think he’s ready to get some help for his issues, Justin; that should help take some of the pressure off of you. That and understanding that you don’t have to physically take care of him.”  
  
“But I want to,” he said, and he meant it. He really did.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I love him.”  
  
“If you love him, you’ll want him to take care of himself.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He stood up and walked away from you, clearly upset.  
  
……  
  
You let him pace, and he finally circled back around, standing beside a chair, his right hand resting on the back as he spoke, “I should be the one taking care of him."  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I'm his partner; I love him.”  
  
“Here we are again,” you said.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You prompted him; he was shutting down again, “What’s the downside to Brian taking care of himself?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Why would he need me?” Justin asked you.  
  
……  
  
“He loves you.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“You don’t think he needs to be loved?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I don’t think he knows he needs to be loved,” he confessed.  
  
……  
  
“Okay, come here for a minute,” you told him. He walked over and sat back on the sofa; he looked weak, exposed and tired and very young again, and you truly felt bad for him; your feelings for him as your friend were beginning to affect you, beginning to show, “This is precisely why Brian needs to get help and precisely why he needs to learn to take care of himself because you’re probably right.”  
  
“I am?”  
  
You weren’t a doctor anymore; you didn’t care about that crap anymore; you just didn’t want to see him suffer; he’d suffered enough—that day, that week, that decade, “I know that this terrifies you. I know that you’re afraid that he’s going to learn something about himself, come home one day, and say it’s over or something, but that’s not going to happen. You couldn’t get rid of Brian if you tried; he loves you so much it’s hard to watch sometimes. He’s like gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe.” You stopped a tear running down his face. “In this case, you’re going to have to lead by example—his example. You’re going to have to love him enough and trust him enough to let him get better, just like he loved you and trusted you when you came here. You won’t regret it, Justin; I promise you, you won’t. But if anything bad happens, I’ll give you your money back.”  
  
“You’re charging me for this?”  
  
You smiled, “No, I just wanted to make you laugh.”  
  
“I know you’re right intellectually; I just felt something really, really different.”  
  
“I know; that’s okay. But you've got to realize who Brian is, though. He didn't grow up like you did. He knew from day one that he wasn't loved. He needs to reverse that; that's a horrible way for anyone to feel. He needs to heal."  
  
"You're right, I know. It's weird to think of him being able to do something or feel something he couldn't do before; I adapted my whole personality to fit his."  
  
"I know. You loved him, and you were way too young to understand."  
  
"Yeah. You're probably right."  
  
……  
  
“How do you feel about attending the funeral tomorrow?” you asked as you closed your time with him.  
  
“I think I can go. I don’t know if I can get up and speak or anything. I don’t know.”  
  
“That’s fine. Whatever you decide to do is okay. I think Sam’s going to have a friend of his filming it, so either way is fine. If you decide not to go, can you give me a call in the afternoon and just let me know how you’re doing?”  
  
“I will,” he said.  
  
"But if you're not there, we're going to miss you. You're a part of us, you know? We need you." you said, standing up.  
  
“Thanks for coming over and talking to me,” Justin said and then he hugged you for a long time, and when he let go, he said, “Wait, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do for Brian, for his head.”  
  
“Nothing, really; his head is fine. He needs to figure out what exactly his trigger is; I’m not sure. That’s why he needs to see somebody. My concern and Daniel’s, too, which is why we got between you two this morning, is that Brian’s triggers are too close to the surface; he doesn’t know what they are, and the situation is very dangerous. We didn’t want you two to go back home and Brian to be driving down the road one day, witness a bloody accident or something, have a break, and run his car off the road. I told him to lay off the liquor, but the break he had today, he was completely sober. So, I’m not sure.”  
  
“So if I talk to him about it—"  
  
“You can talk to him, that’s fine. Just do it where it’s safe so that if he does faint or whatever, he’s safe. You guys might be able to narrow it down. Just don’t talk to him about it while he’s driving or something like that.”  
  
“Thanks…for helping both of us.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.”  
  
“Please tell Richard I’m sorry I kept you all night.”  
  
“I will, but he’ll forgive you,” you told him, “He has to or Jesus won’t be his friend.”  
  
……  
  
Justin walked you to the elevator, and as the doors closed, you leaned against the back wall and closed your eyes for the long ride down to the lobby. When you got there, when the doors opened, the same concierge in training who’d been guarding Brian’s sushi was standing there waiting for you, “Dr. Massey?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Mr. Taylor asked me to call a car service for you. It’s raining so hard; there are no cabs. It’s right out front. It’ll take you wherever you need to go.”  
  
“Oh, thank you.”  
  
“My pleasure, sir.”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
  
  
_is it raining with you?_  
  
The rain wasn’t letting up, even from the penthouse you could see it bouncing off the ledges, sidewalks, and streets; it was too much at one time, determined to prove to you that there was a point to all of this endless repetition. You let go of the curtain and turned off the lights in the rest of the suite.  
  
……  
  
When you opened the door to your bedroom, Brian immediately turned off the television bathing the room in darkness. "Brian,” you protested, “Now, I can’t see where I’m going.”  
  
“Oh, sorry,” he said, and then the small light on the nightstand came on as you came into the room. He was lying on the bed holding three mini-bottles of various brands of whiskey in his hands; he sat up as you walked in asking, “Was it good for you, too?”  
  
”What are you doing with those?” you asked him.  
  
“Just holding them.”  
  
“You’re losing your mind.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.  
  
He answered you as you took the unopened bottles from him and sat them next to the telephone, “So on a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you at me right now?”  
  
“Zero.”  
  
He raised his eyebrow at you, “Ten being the most pissed, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“C’mere.” He put his hand on your waist and pulled you toward him until you were sitting on his lap facing him. “I didn’t know what else to do.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’m gonna figure my shit out, okay? You don’t have to do it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do it.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
……  
  
His hands were under your shirt, and they felt so strong all of a sudden, “I love you.”  
  
“I know,” you said, but you didn’t sound very convincing because,  
  
“Look at me,” he commanded you, and you did, “Which one of those words wasn’t registering with you?”  
  
“I’m not sure…and I don’t want to fight tonight, okay?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Brian pulled you down against him, laying your head on his shoulder, “You’re not angry, and I’m not angry, so why would we fight?”  
  
“I can’t explain it. I just don’t want to.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He reached over and turned off the light.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_nothing you confess could make me love you less_  
  
Brian was quiet having turned the conversation to something more tactile…  
  
There was a part of you that was beginning to feel the six year separation from him for the first time, almost like it was hitting you all at once, like giant bowling pins being knocked down in slow motion, one for each year and each one knowing that it’s next. Maybe you couldn’t feel it before, maybe you didn’t understand it or didn’t want to or were just afraid to…but there was something about it that was suddenly overwhelming…  
  
You tried to think about something else or frame it in a different way, but you couldn’t do it in time…  
  
He kissed the side of your face…  
  
It was wet…  
  
……  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asked you.  
  
“I miss you.”  
  
“I’m right here.”  
  
“I don’t mean now…I mean before. I miss you from before.”  
  
……  
  
“From before what?” he said quietly.  
  
“From before I came back.”  
  
You knew you weren’t making any sense, nothing made any sense anymore except that everything suddenly did, and you were about to say that, that leaving him six years ago was the hardest thing you ever did, but you didn’t know that until right then, but then he said,  
  
“I know. I miss you, too.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Every single day.”  
  
And you knew what he meant, you knew that he meant every day up until that moment because a part of you had never come back, a part of you was still homeless in New York City, terrified of returning home. You felt you owed him some sort of explanation after everything he’d done for you,  
  
“Brian—"  
  
But it wasn’t your turn to talk, only to listen; the rain muting any moonlight that tried to force its way into the room.  
  
“Listen to me,” he said, the edge of his fingers tracing your jaw line. “I made this impossible for you, okay? You were practically a kid; it wasn’t your job to handle my shit for me. You had a fucking brain injury for Christ’s sake. I had no right to put that kind of pressure on you—"  
  
“You didn’t—"  
  
“Yes, I did, and I did a bang up job convincing you that I wasn’t doing it while I was doing it, too. I’m ashamed of myself, hurting you like that.”  
  
“Brian—"  
  
“And you better believe me when I say that because that’s the most honest statement I’ve ever made in my entire life.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I believe you,” you finally said when you could speak again.  
  
……  
  
You sat up a little to wipe his face with your hand, and when you did, he held it, and you could feel him staring at you in the darkness, feel his other arm tightening around your waist, and when he kissed you, it was like you’d just met him.  
  
There was nothing unoriginal about the next few minutes, nothing about them that felt anything but brand new. You were experiencing the intimate, nascent moments of your relationship a decade after they should’ve happened, and they weren’t the least bit stale or even rehearsed. It baffled your mind, but your body politely asked it to shut the hell up.  
  
*********************  
  
  
_blame it on the rain_  
  
He must’ve removed your clothing because you don’t remember doing it. You remember him undressing because you watched him; he was standing at the foot of the bed; you were lying on the sheets. He’d pulled the bedspread down…  
  
He had something in his hand; he tossed it on the bed. It bounced once and then landed with a _thud._  
  
He put one knee on the mattress and then the other, and then he was on top of you, and you moaned just from that because you felt like you’d been waiting twenty-four hours for just that instead of an actual eternity of thirty seconds. His touch was intimate and generous yet never presumptuous; his voice a sweet restorative, " _…how much I love you…,"_ a gift that surely would’ve taken offense had it been returned.  
  
“ _Get it”_ , he hot-whispered in your ear, and your palm passed over the sheet scanning for the lube he’d thrown your way. You stopped when you found it and flipped it open, coating his outstretched hand. You closed your eyes and held your breath as his hand disappeared and then resurfaced between your legs, savoring that unbelievably incredible feeling of knowing he’s about to be inside you. “ _Uh…Justin,”_ and he was, and he was still for almost a minute, listening to you…  
  
…beg.  
  
“ _I want you…  
  
"I want you to fuck me…until I scream…until I'm begging you to stop-"_  
  
He started to move, his face buried in your neck, the sound of his voice reverberating in your ear, "Oh god… _fuck._ "  
  
" _And then don't stop, Brian. Don't. Stop."_  
  
Perhaps that was the sentiment; that the fuck should somehow mirror the agony of the day in order to balance everything out, that where the heart had been, the body must follow. And it did, and no prior fuck in any hotel room in any city anywhere in the world could hold a handle to it; the sheer energy of it hijacked by your souls to stitch up an open wound.  
  
There was a path to be followed and that night you pointed it out and he led. You held on tight and let him because you were tired and grieving, because you loved him and trusted him, and because you wanted him to know that despite every dark day the two of you had ever shared together, you believed in the light he was carrying.  
  
“ _I love you, Brian….. God, I…love…you. Fuck me…  
  
“Fuck me…  
  
“until…  
  
“it…  
  
“stops…  
  
“raining…”_  
  
  
  
  
Lyrics taken from Annie Lennox’s _Why_ , Michelle Branch’s _The Game of Love_ , the Gin Blossom’s _Follow You Down_ , Heart’s _Nothing at All_ , Cher’s _Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves_ , Heart’s _Alone_ , Heart’s _What About Love?_ , Cher’s _Believe_ , Bob Seger’s _Against the Wind_ , The Eurythmics _Here Comes the Rain Again_ , Heart’s _Alone_ again, Elton John’s _Candle in the Wind_ , REM’s _Losing My Religion_ , Annie Lennox’s _Why_ again, The Police’s _King of Pain_ , Elton John’s _Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me_ , Stevie Nick’s _Gypsy_ , Five for Fighting’s _Superman_ , The Pretenders’s _I’ll Stand By You_ , Bruce Springsteen's _Streets of Philadelphia_ , Annie Lennox’s _Train in Vain_ , Seal’s _Kiss From a Rose_ , Genesis' _No Son of Mine_ , Robert Flack’s _Killing Me Softly_ , Elton John’s _Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me_ again, Groove Terminator’s _Here Comes Another One_ , Gerry Rafferty’s _Baker Street_ , Robert Flack’s _Killing Me Softly_ again, Gwen Stefani featuring Akon's _The Sweet Escape_ , Five for Fighting’s _The Riddle_ , Roseanne Cash’s _Seven Year Ache_ , Genesis’s _No Son of Mine_ again and twice, Three Dog Night's _Mama Told Me Not to Come_ , Linda Ronstadt's _When Will I Be Loved?_ , The Eurythmics _Here Comes the Rain Again_ again, The Pretender’s _I’ll Stand By You_ again, and Milli Vanilli's _Blame It On the Rain_ and yes, I know they faked it.  
  
Icon bases used throughout this story came from [](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/profile)[**basicbases**](http://basicbases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/profile)[**basebeat**](http://basebeat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**khushi_icons**](http://khushi-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessiveicons**](http://obsessiveicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/profile)[**graphical_love**](http://graphical-love.livejournal.com/) , [](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/profile)[**anithradia**](http://anithradia.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplybases**](http://simplybases.livejournal.com/) , [](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**randomicons**](http://randomicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bases_by_maggie**](http://bases-by-maggie.livejournal.com/) , [](http://blackwhiteicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackwhiteicons**](http://blackwhiteicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://dramadiva-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**dramadiva_icons**](http://dramadiva-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://driveon-icons.livejournal.com/profile)[**driveon_icons**](http://driveon-icons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/profile)[**foryourhead**](http://foryourhead.livejournal.com/) , [](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_goddess**](http://icon-goddess.livejournal.com/) , [](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/profile)[**amillionicons**](http://amillionicons.livejournal.com/) , [](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/748637.html#)[**joelzbutterly**](http://bjfic.livejournal.com/748637.html#) , [](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/profile)[**icon_duration**](http://icon-duration.livejournal.com/) , [](http://timepunching.livejournal.com/profile)[**timepunching**](http://timepunching.livejournal.com/) , [](http://andos-pics.livejournal.com/profile)[**andos_pics**](http://andos-pics.livejournal.com/) , some icon communities at [Greatest Journal](http://www.greatestjournal.com/), and the website [Absolute Trouble.](http://www.absolutetrouble.com/index.php)  
  
Original picture of NYC Sewer grate and first frame of NYC sewer animation (blurry, out of focus shot of grate) were both taken by [](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/profile)[**silent_seas**](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/) in NYC. Original graveside picture from the tunnel was done by [](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/profile)[**briannahai**](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/) and was originally featured in [Chapter 31-Souls](http://community.livejournal.com/bjfic/499214.html). You’ll be seeing more of her work shortly. All other animations were done by me, and yes, I’m fully aware of the limitations of my talent in that respect. I like it; it’s fun.

 


	43. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 40-Novacaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 7/15/07] This chapter took up 2 posts on LJ. It's posted here in full.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 40-NOVACAINE**

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
_live and let die_  
  
It had been your own personal and quiet decision to have Alan cremated that Thursday. You didn’t want to be there, didn’t want that image in your head, didn’t want to know what time it was happening, just that it would done by Friday morning, that his ashes would be in the church when you came to say good-bye. You and Sam had had a nice, long dinner with Nate and Sarah, one that you knew wouldn’t have run so long were it not for the mutual confusion you all shared about what had happened earlier that day with Justin and Brian. Nate peppered you with questions all evening; you felt bad after he and Sarah had done so much for you in such a short time, but you had little to offer him; you knew little more than they knew. Nate kept watching you at dinner, like maybe you were going to reveal something by accident. “When Brian came into the church today, I knew something was wrong,” he said, “He never looks like that. Never.” And then you realized that he felt about Brian the way you did about Justin, and you smiled at him.  
  
……  
  
When dinner was over, Nate’s driver dropped Nate and Sarah off first, and then drove you and Sam to Daniel’s so you could pick up Amelia. Your key was in the lock when the door was pulled open, surprising you, and then Richard was standing in front of you.  
  
“Oh, hi,” you said, staring up at him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, moving out of the way so you could come in.  
  
“Where’s Jon?” you asked.  
  
“He’s at The Regency with Justin.”  
  
“Daniel’s with him?” you asked.  
  
He shook his head, “Dan’s sound asleep.”  
  
“Oh god; I’m so sorry,” you said, running up the stairs to get Amelia, “I didn’t mean to impose.”  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, following behind you, “Dan and I had a good time with her.”  
  
You stopped in the doorway of the guest bedroom; Amelia was sound asleep amid a hundred stuffed animals. “Why’s Jon with Justin?” you asked.  
  
“I think he’s upset.”  
  
You posed the question, but you knew there was no way in hell, “He asked for Jon?”  
  
“Brian did.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“They probably asked for him, too.”  
  
You sank against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at your brand new shoes you’d purchased earlier that day, such an idiotic thing to do when there was so much pain all around you. “Justin’s like a brother to me,” you said to them. “I mean, you know, not including the orgies and all that.”  
  
“I know,” Richard answered.  
  
“So I’ve got one brother who’s in an urn somewhere and another who’s wishing he was.”  
  
“Harper.”  
  
“You didn’t talk to him earlier; I did. I’ve never seen Justin like that; I’ve never seen him so upset. He looked like he wanted to jump out of his own skin.”  
  
"I think he's going through a lot right now."  
  
“And like all it would take is for me to just say the right thing, only I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to say, and I didn’t want to say it because I didn’t want him to come to whatever conclusion he was trying to come to, but at the same time I wanted to because it was like he just wanted some fucking relief, you know?”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I can’t stand this. Alan’s fucking murdered; I put that to rest, and now this.”  
  
Richard put his huge hand on your shoulder; you felt like it was the only gravity holding you down, “Whatever Justin’s going through is bigger than you or me and it goes way beyond what we know.”  
  
And then you wanted to push his hand off your shoulder, shove it off for some reason, “I know that, but I don’t care. I want to help him. I need to.”  
  
“He’s not your brother in this sense either; you don’t share his life story the way you shared Alan’s. It’s not the same.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“With all due respect, Richard, when I want your advice, I’ll go to confession.”  
  
*********************  
_the young and the restless_  
  
Amelia woke up in the limo, but that was okay, Sam said, because a girl ought to see her first ride in a limo, and it was just the three of you all the way home. “What’s the matter?” Sam asked you, his arms around your shoulders.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Tell me when you’re ready, then,” he said. You lay your head on his shoulder, and he kissed the top of your head. “I like your new shoes; they’re hot.”  
  
“They pinch my feet,” you told him.  
  
“They pinch my dick, too, but you don’t hear me complaining.”  
  
……  
  
At home, Sam read to Amelia while you sat on the floor in your bedroom going through the trunk full of your mother’s things, trying to decide if you were going to put Alan’s things in there as well, if they’d all fit, and then you wandered into your office and pulled out a scrapbook from years prior filled with pictures of your ‘new’ studio, of Alan sound asleep on your then brand new futon, of an advertisement to lease the space, the print out of an email from a 'J. Taylor' saying he’d like to see the place, of your ad hock wedding invitation, the one you'd given to Sam, of a time when you thought fifteen minutes could make or break your marriage.  
  
So long ago.  
  
……  
  
And then footsteps behind you, stopping, and then Sam's hands in your hair, “Ready for bed, babe?”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_love actually_  
  
That Thursday night was the eve of the Alan’s funeral, and the events of that day had all but convinced you that laying Alan to rest was going to be the easiest part of all of this; as far as you were concerned, he was the only one, the only thing, that was at all interested in dying.  
  
And that miserably rainy night when things were finally starting to get ‘better’….  
  
Well, you were still inside Justin the first time you felt it, but you tried to ignore it as it wasn’t something you’d ever felt before, at least not when you were fucking him, but then again the fuck was more or less over…unless you could change that.  
  
You tried…but your dick wouldn’t exactly cooperate.  
  
“You’re tired,” Justin said, making his hands all heavy on your back, making it twice as hard to get hard, to get going again…  
  
\-- _Goddamn it._  
  
“No,” you said disagreeing with him out loud so that maybe if your dick heard you tell him that it would get with the program, and he must’ve thought the effort you were making was cute or something because he kissed you, threading his fingers through the hair at the base of your neck. “Yes, you are,” he said, “It’s okay. Every race doesn’t have to be a marathon.”  
  
You began to yearn for the good old days when fucking was really just about fucking.  
  
……  
  
  
You gave up and let your head fall over his shoulder so he couldn’t see your face.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
There was a damp silence trapped in that room, held hostage by the rain outside, and it shielded you as you slid out and off of him and ended up lying beside him without feeling like you’d moved at all, but somehow the sheets were underneath you and not him anymore; he was beside you as you lay on your stomach, your head turned away from him and toward the door. He began smoothing his hand down your back like you were a small child he was trying to put to sleep.  
  
But the Sandman had been given the night off. (Apparently, he didn’t work for you.)  
  
……  
  
“This isn’t about fucking, is it?” Justin asked you, lying beside you as close physically as he could get. You didn’t want to speak, feeling like the introduction of your voice into that moment was going to take it in the wrong direction, so you did the only thing you could think of—you turned your head so he could see your face.  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_basic instinct_  
  
When Jon said that your relationship with Brian had levels, he wasn’t talking about the top and the bottom or that sometimes when Brian was headed for the bottom, he needed you on the top because Brian was a bit of a chameleon in the bedroom, finding more pleasure in your initiative to top rather than in his to bottom. It was no different, really, than you being coy with him when you wanted him to be…hmm… _relentless,_ rather than handing him a calendar with Tuesday circled in red and a note reading, _'If you want me tonight, you’re gonna have to work for it.'_  
  
“Talk to me” you said as he allowed his body to sink heavy into the sheets, as you straddled him and massaged his shoulders, as his eyes closed. He didn’t answer you, so you continued the pressure but only non-verbally, moving down his back, your thumbs riding the tension all the way down; he groaned in response. And then his right hand slid from above his head and found yours in the darkness, urging it lower, and then he pressed on your kneecap until you relinquished your current posture and lowered yourself between his legs. His other hand had somehow located the lube and propped it against his hip; you saw it as you let your thumbs finish their path down his back and trace the line between his cheeks, your breath enough to make him open his legs and surround you.  
  
You stopped for a second and listened; he wasn’t breathing at first; he definitely didn’t want to talk. He sighed every time he felt your body move. You kissed the inside of his thigh and heard his fingers drag along the sheets.  
  
You did it again, and his hand moved toward you, a fist full of cotton.  
  
You moved to his other thigh and kissed him again, and that hand flew off the sheets and wrapped around your arm, holding it in such a vice grip that you would’ve cried had it been anyone but him. You could hear him scolding you in your head:  
  
‘ _This is what you’re having for dinner, Sunshine._ ’  
  
So you ate.  
  
Kind of took a one course meal and stretched it into five.  
  
And when the review came in, well, let’s just say it was what you were hoping for:  
  
“ _Christ, god. Fuck me.  
  
“Wanna come when you fuck me.”_  
  
……  
  
Because they really don’t get much better than that.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_all the rage_  
  
The sheets were stuck to you and the room was thick with an exhausting overspent need; you’d worn him out to get where you needed to be and had a momentary flash—a snapshot that blinked and then disappeared in your mind--this was why you had to marry someone younger than you…  
  
Sometimes fucking was nothing more than a cheap high because you could feel it coursing through your body, tiny endorphins running everywhere in brand new, bright white tennis shoes passing out Ecstasy to everyone they saw, and then you realized that they looked like the _M &M_ people only in designer clothing and that their half-life was shorter than a fashion runway…  
  
And Justin was still inside you…  
  
And your inhibitions clock was running out…  
  
But he knew that, and he was trying, as always—since day one--to help you, so you tried to relax, tried to let it work because, honestly, what did you have to lose?  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He was kissing the back of your neck, having pushed your damp hair aside, and his voice sounds so different, so fucking grown up when you hear it behind your ear, “Please talk to me,” and when you didn’t answer him right away, he said, “Jon said I’ve really hurt you by not letting you talk about this stuff, so will you please fucking say something?”  
  
So you did, “That mother fucker.”  
  
“He’s right.”  
  
“He is not.”  
  
“Yes, he is, Brian, and I don’t want to argue about that right now. Please say what you were going to say.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“ _Please,_ ” he whispered in your ear.  
  
……  
  
“I feel like I fucked this up for you,” you finally said.  
  
“Fucked what up?”  
  
“This. New York. Your big break. I feel like I broke your big break.”  
  
“Brian, please.”  
  
“I’m serious. Jon said that you came here to deal with my shit because I didn’t handle it myself, that you ended up doing that instead of living your life—"  
  
“That mother fucker.”  
  
“He’s right, Justin.”  
  
“He is not.”  
  
“Yes, he is. I wanted more for you than that. I wanted you to have everything, _everything._ Everything I never had or passed up or forgot to do; everything you would’ve ever—"  
  
“Okay, stop.” He’d pulled out of you during your exchange and had gotten out of bed. You’d rattled his cage and he was standing in the dark in the nude with his arms crossed leaning against the corner of the wall beside the bathroom.  
  
‘”I don’t want to stop,” you told him, propping your head on your hand, “I’m fucking serious. I _regret_ what I did to you; for the first time in my life I feel it. I actually _feel_ it; I felt it when I was fucking you—"  
  
“Well, that’s a great thing to feel when you’re fucking me,” he said, and then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door.  
  
You flattened your palms on your face, “Jesus H. Christ. This is why I keep my fucking mouth shut.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
_a room with a view_  
  
By that Thursday night in April of 2011, your relationship with Jon Massey was a bit of a card trick to you…  
  
_”Pick a card.  
  
Put it back in the deck. Don’t worry, I won’t look.  
  
Shuffle the deck for me and give it back.  
  
I’m going to pull three random cards out of this deck. The third one will be yours.  
  
Is this your card?”  
  
“Yes.”_  
  
The two of you seemed to be pulling it off, but you had no idea how it was being done.  
  
Or who was holding the deck.  
  
Or what your card was supposed to be.  
  
……  
  
You knew he’d be back late; you were prepared for that, and he called to let you know he was on the way, so you watched for him from Daniel’s bedroom window in the dark; Daniel was sound asleep—apparently, a little brandy and Ambien can do that to a guy when you’re not looking. Jon had neglected to tell you that he’d be arriving in a limo, that a chauffeur would be opening the door for him, even in the remnants of the rain, he was already carrying himself differently, or maybe you shouldn’t have finished off that bottle of brandy.  
  
Toss up, really.  
  
You listened in the dark for his key in the lock, for some melodramatic reason you hadn’t turned on any inside lights; he didn’t either as he began walking up the stairs. You watched him walk into the studio where he thought you were, take off his wet jacket and hang it up, and then you could see him as he started coming down the hallway in the dark. When he got to Daniel’s doorway, he stopped. He saw Daniel first, and then you sitting in the brand new chair.  
  
“What’re you doing?” he asked.  
  
“Staying with him like you asked me to.”  
  
“He’s asleep,” he pointed out.  
  
“He’s a wreck,” you responded.  
  
Jon looked down at the floor, “I know.”  
  
“I assume we’re staying here tonight?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good,” you said as you got up and started walking out of the room, “Because there’s no way in hell I’d leave him here by himself.”  
  
*********************  
_st. elsewhere_  
  
“I can’t be everywhere at once, Richard,” Jon said to you as you helped him pull out the sofa bed in the studio.  
  
“Did I say that you should be?”  
  
He followed you into the bathroom, arguing with you as you washed your face, “No, but you’re acting like it.”  
  
You swished mouthwash as you were probably the only person left on Earth who didn’t have a toothbrush at Daniel’s and spit it out, “I’m not questioning your whereabouts at all; I’m just telling you that he’s a fucking wreck.” He followed you back into the studio, “It’s not your job to fix the entire world, Jon, but for someone who doesn’t even believe in God, you sure as hell act like you’ve got his job description.”  
  
……  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Your back was turned when he’d spoken, “What did you just say to me?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
The air in the room got so still; Amelia’s painting of Brian hanging on one of the easels, the paint stopped drying.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Richard--  
  
“I didn’t—  
  
……  
  
“Oh god. I’m so…sorry.  
  
“I would never…  
  
……  
  
“Please don’t….”  
  
……  
  
He was standing in the doorway of the studio, at least ten feet away from you, blocking it in case you were going to walk out.  
  
He was shaking.  
  
……  
  
You’d never seen him that way; you thought he was going to crumble, fold into himself and disappear. The Great Dr. Jon Massey was made out of Paper Mache.  
  
But that night at that moment wasn’t the time to relay that bit of information.  
  
……  
  
“Did you just say you wanted to fuck me?” you asked him.  
  
……  
  
It took him several seconds to recalibrate himself, to rewind the moment, his thumb and forefinger whisked under both eyes so fast, the same way they’d done when he’d talked to you about Alan dying on the table; he amazed you in that way sometimes with his drive-thru emotions. Occupational hazard.  
  
“I apologize,” he said, “For the crude come on. You deserve something much more sophisticated than that.”  
  
You stripped down to your underwear and got comfortable on the pull out, “Yeah, well, maybe you can try again next week.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
_love don’t cost a thing_  
  
“See, I was right,” Sam said as the two of you lay in bed that night.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About Justin and his drawbridge. I told you there was something there. I just had no idea it was this massive, gargantuan thing of a thing.”  
  
“I'm really worried about him; I hope he’s okay,” you said.  
  
“Of course he’s okay. His husband’s a freaking millionaire.”  
  
“You’re an idiot.”  
  
……  
  
“Come on, Harper. You know what I mean.”  
  
“All I know is that you’re an idiot, and that Justin was so upset tonight that Brian asked _Jon_ to come talk to him.”  
  
“ _Whoa._ ”  
  
“See, you’re an idiot.”  
  
“Uh, yeah, no spoonful of sugar in that recipe.”  
  
You turned on your side and looked into Sam’s dark eyes, “Do you know how unbelievably fucked-up-whack-o you’d have to be for me to ask _Jon_ to come over here?”  
  
“On a scale of one to ten, probably like seventy-five?”  
  
“Exactly. That’s like hard-core intervention," you confirmed and then rolled back on your back like like you were. "You'd have to be standing on the ledge outside our bedroom window threatening to have a sex change."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Okay, but see that's all part of the drawbridge," Sam said. "That supports my original theory. Justin's wigging out, so Brian lowers the drawbridge and lets Jon in and then he p-u-l-l-s it back up. So it all makes perfect sense.  
  
"Except……" and then he stopped.  
  
"Except what?"  
  
"Except what if we never see Jon again. What if Brian _doesn't let him back out?_ "  
  
"Hmm. I think there's an even bigger question than that one," you said.  
  
"Really? What?"  
  
"How are you going to convince Nate to write the score for your blockbuster movie _Drawbridge to Terabithia_ considering you're obviously out of your mother fucking mind?"  
  
……  
  
……  
  
"I'm going to find that drawbridge one day, Harper."  
  
"I'm sure you will."  
  
"And then you'll have to eat your words."  
  
"I'm sure I'll be starving by then. Anyway, Justin’s gonna be okay because his husband is sex on a stick."  
  
Sam laughed, “Oh, by the way, Amelia played doctor with ‘sex on a stick’ today.”  
  
……  
  
“Why am I jealous of my own daughter?” you pondered out loud.  
  
“I know; I’m wondering if I might be a bi limo driver,” he said.  
  
“Sam, you can’t steer a grocery cart or a stroller without maiming yourself.”  
  
“I think that’s because there’s no sex involved.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Why are you on top of me?” you asked him a few minutes later.  
  
“Is that a multiple choice question?”  
  
……  
  
“Pencils down,” you said after several seconds.  
  
“That’s not my pencil.”  
  
*********************  
_from here to eternity_  
  
……  
  
_three and a half minutes later_  
  
……  
  
“I never know how to act after you dry hump me,” you confided in him as he lay on top of you, his foreplaying comedian finally gone.  
  
“I didn’t want to hurt you; I wasn't sure if--"  
  
“I know.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“We’ll try again,” you told him, “This miscarriage……god, that's a weird word; it's a setback, Sam. That's all." He didn't say anything; he just stayed where he was, so you kept your arms wrapped around him. You waited a few minutes to see if he was falling asleep, but when you knew he wasn’t, you said, “It was your baby, too; it’s okay for you to feel this way. You don’t need to tiptoe around me.”  
  
“I know; I’ve tried, and I can’t. Your pain trumps mine for some reason,” he admitted.  
  
“Okay, that’s all right. One day it won’t; one day you’ll feel it or you’ll see it through the lens of your camera or something. You’ll find it.”  
  
He located your nightgown discarded in the sheets and used it to clean up the mess he’d made and then tossed it on the floor, getting comfortable for the night, his body next to yours. “I feel like I’m chasing my own pain,” he told you, “Like I’m on _COPS_ , running down something I shouldn’t even want to catch--trying to arrest it or something."  
  
You kissed him goodnight; he tasted like toothpaste and sorrow, and then you told him, “We’re artists, Sam; that’s what we do.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_the story of us_  
  
“I’m pissed at you Brian.”  
  
The smell of something other than sushi for dinner had seduced you out of your self-exile in the bathroom; Brian was sitting in the outer room eating—of all things—a cheeseburger. There was one for you sitting right next to his, prepared exactly the way you like it—extra pickles on the side.  
  
“Thanks,” he said.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For telling me. Come eat.” You walked over and sat down next to him, and he smiled at you or, rather, at what you were wearing. When you’d come out of the bathroom and gone to your suitcase, it was completely empty save your mystical gray pants and a tight white t-shirt that you were amazed still fit you considering you hadn’t worn it since your days of sucking Brian off in the backroom.  
  
“What did you do with the rest of my clothes?” you asked him.  
  
“They promised me that no harm would come to them,” he told you.  
  
“’They’ who?”  
  
“N.E.C.R.O.”  
  
“Who the fuck is ‘necro?’”  
  
“No, _N.E.C.R.O._ , the _Non-Erotic Clothing Repossession Organization_ ; they assured me that everything always gets a good home.”  
  
“You better hope that this is some side-effect from the spill you took today,” you informed him as you dumped way too much salt on your French fries, “Because if it’s not, you’re going to go to work one day, open your briefcase and find nothing inside it but a dildo and a cock ring.”  
  
“I think you might be over-reacting,” he said, popping a fry into his mouth, but you ignored him and finished your thought, “And every time you open your briefcase, it’s going to be rigged to a little device that plays sounds of you begging me to suck you and fuck you over and over and over—"  
  
“ _Whoa._ ”  
  
“And harder and harder and harder—"  
  
“You _are_ pissed at me.”  
  
“And it’s going to be set to opera music so that Ted will always come running in to see if it’s a new aria or something.”  
  
“Okay, okay, settle down. There’s no need to bring Theodore into this.”  
  
“I don’t know, Brian. It’s just that sometimes I don’t know what the hell you want.”  
  
“I want you to eat that cheeseburger and those French fries and drink that ten dollar bottle of Coke and relax for a little bit, and then we’ll talk about it. Okay?”  
  
“Okay.” You handed him your bottle of Coke because The Regency wanted to be all fancy and served it in glass bottles, and you didn’t feel like fucking with it, “Open this please.”  
  
“My pleasure. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Taylor?”  
  
“You better put my fucking clothes back.”  
  
“Your wish is my reprimand.”  
  
……  
  
You were so hungry, hungrier than you even realized because you really hadn’t eaten much all day and then uncomfortably full because you ate too fast and way too much, the way you and Daphne used to eat when you got stoned. Brian was reclining on the sofa, his bare feet poking out of the end of his jeans and propped on the coffee table as he was watching some crime drama, and when you laid your head in his lap, his arm migrated from the back of the sofa to your hip, “You all right?”  
  
“Stuffed.”  
  
“I thought you were going to eat the plate for a second there.”  
  
“Probably charge us twelve thousand dollars if I did that.”  
  
…..  
  
Your arms were wrapped around your stomach, and when you felt Brian’s hand toying with your shirt, you relaxed them allowing his hand to slip underneath and then resumed your position, holding onto his hand, so warm against your chest.  
  
“Seems like we never do this anymore,” he said to you at one point, his fingers in your hair.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“This. You never do this; just come lay in my lap.”  
  
“I don’t remember doing it that many times before,” you told him.  
  
“You were usually drunk.”  
  
“I was?”  
  
“Took you awhile to learn to hold your liquor.” His hand opened wide on your chest and you loosened your grip a little so he could move it; it felt nice just to lie there and concentrate on his touch. “You were very affectionate when you were drunk,” he told you, “It wasn’t hard to get you to lie down instead of stumbling around the loft bumping into shit.”  
  
“Like those stupid columns.”  
  
Brian laughed, “Like everything. Every time you got a little liquor in you, you acted like I rearranged the furniture.”  
  
“Stop it; I did not.”  
  
“Oh yes, you did. One time we got into this huge fight because you accused me of moving the bed.”  
  
“Brian, that is not true.”  
  
“Yes, it is. You were so mad at me, and then I got pissed at you for being pissed at me, and I went and got a measuring tape and proved to you that I didn’t move it because the light was still centered over the bed, and there was no way in hell that I’d moved the light fixture.”  
  
“Oh…yeah. I sorta remember that now.”  
  
“And then you were embarrassed that you were wrong, so you said you were going to go sleep on the sofa, so I said, ‘Fine, but you’re gonna have to get there by yourself.’”  
  
“I never made it to the sofa, did I?”  
  
“Hell, no. You barely made it to the bathroom before you pissed on yourself.”  
  
……  
  
“Good times, huh?”  
  
He laughed, “Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago.”  
  
……  
  
You rolled toward him and said, “It _was_ a lifetime ago, and I guess that’s what I don’t understand. I’m not that kid anymore; sometimes I feel like you still think I am.”  
  
……  
  
Brian turned off the television.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
_something’s gotta give_  
  
Once Brian turned off the television, the darkness in the room had become foreboding.  
  
“I’m listening,” he said almost immediately, and you kind of hoped he was speaking to the room and not to you because your mind was going blank very quickly, like somebody had flipped open your brain, power-washed your thoughts, and then fled the scene as they dripped out of your head.  
  
“I know you are,” you said.  
  
……  
  
The rain had abated, but you didn’t believe it was gone for good. Your eyes focused on the window behind the sofa, on the clouds trying to dress the moon. Brian said nothing; his eyes were on you, his hand smoothing across your stomach; he was reminding you…reminding you of the part of him that was okay with what you’d done to the place…in the last minute.  
  
……  
  
You finally spoke, finally found a way to pull the words out of your head, stuck like they were like rubber cement, “Brian?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
They came out jumbled and stuck to one another, “I’m not sure that what I said before came out the way I meant for it to come out when I said it.”  
  
“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you can diagram that sentence.” You asked for twenty, and he agreed, but only if you’d do it later. He told you that he’d shake your hand to seal the deal but you were already holding it, squeezing it actually, and you said, “That’s okay, I trust you.”  
  
“That’s nice to know,” he said, and it took you a minute to hear the sarcasm that wasn’t there.  
  
He’d taken it away.  
  
……  
  
And even though you didn’t want it to, it started to happen again, your inner paintbrushes dove into the sink—fuck soap and water—they were going right down the drain, your easels slammed shut and faced the wall; fear was the only color left.  
  
‘ _And that’s important to you, that it feel the same?’_  
  
You felt like you had to catch it before it was gone for good.  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I have to talk to you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“But the thing is I really don’t think I can.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“The reason for that is the same reason that I can’t talk.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So I have to try it a different way.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Will you help me move the coffee table?”  
  
Brian looked at you carefully as you sat up, and when you stood up and he realized you were serious, he got up and went to the opposite side of the table from where you were standing and, “On three.”  
  
“I have to get some blankets and the pillows off the bed,” you said.  
  
“I’ll get them,” he offered, and then he came back momentarily with two blankets and two pillows and helped you spread the blankets on the floor. You tossed the pillows at the far end, and then looked at him because he was just standing there in the barely-moonlit room in his jeans and a t-shirt waiting for you to say something, so you said, “I want you to go on a date with me.”  
  
He smiled a funny smile like when you got all your hair cut off and said, “Where are we going?”  
  
“Nowhere really.”  
  
“Sounds like fun.”  
  
You walked over to him and extended your hand to him, “Are you ready to go?”  
  
He put his hand in yours, “Guess so,” and walked two steps with you to the middle of the blankets and sat down when you did, facing the sofa and therefore the windows. The curtains were open, the moon mostly shy, and then he asked you, “Can I ask where we are?”  
  
“Sure. The movies.”  
  
……  
  
After inquiring if the seats reclined, and therefore, getting your permission to lie down on the pillows next to you, Brian asked, “So what’s this movie about?”  
  
“Lots of things, really.”  
  
“Any chance I can get some candied walnuts and a large Diet Coke?”  
  
“I’m sorry; the concession stand is closed.”  
  
“A little weed?”  
  
“Stop it. It’s about to start.”  
  
……  
  
He got very quiet and so did you, and then you felt like he was staring at you, so you turned your head and sure enough he was. “What are you doing?” you asked him.  
  
He smiled that smile, the one that the wolf must’ve smiled at Little Red Riding Hood, “I’m so going to get to third base with you.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’S POV**  
_three’s company_  
  
You were falling asleep despite Sam’s post-coital fondling, but then your eyes popped open, and you stopped his roaming hand. “Okay, sorry, I’ll stop,” he mumbled.  
  
What happened next was more significant than either of you realized in that sleepy moment because it was you that noticed it first, “She’s crying; can’t you hear her?” You found Amelia by following the trail of toilet paper she’d left from the bathroom to her room, but you could’ve followed your nose and found her even quicker. “’Melia, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Mommy.”  
  
“What’s the matter? Did you have an accident?”  
  
Her panties were soiled on the floor surrounded by a pile of toilet paper. “I hadded a bad dream and I pooped the macaronis.”  
  
“Okay, that’s okay. We’ll clean it up.” Sam wandered in as you were leading Amelia to the bathroom, soiled clothing in your hands. “Could you change her sheets, please?” you asked him.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I pooped on the accident, Daddy.”  
  
“That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll get it all cleaned up.”  
  
……  
  
“Do you need to use the potty again?” you asked her when Sam brought you clean pajamas.  
  
Amelia shook her head, “I pooped all the macaronis; they’re all gone.”  
  
“Why don’t you pee some chocolate milk?” you asked her.  
  
“'Cause I already peed the chocolate milk all gone."  
  
"Okay."  
  
……  
  
Once Amelia was put to bed for the third time that evening, and both you and Sam were settled in yours, he turned to you and said, “I didn’t have to change her sheets; the bed was fine.”  
  
Assuming he took the lazy way out, you scolded him, “Sam, it was all down her legs. It was a mess. You better—"  
  
“Harper, she didn’t have that accident in bed. She had it at her little table. I had to wipe down one of those chairs. She was wide awake, having a tea party…that we were not invited to until she crapped her pants.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m serious, and that little bracelet she swiped; I had to clean that, too. It was on the floor covered in poop.”  
  
“Oh my god. That little—"  
  
“Stinker?"  
  
……  
  
……  
  
_five minutes later_  
  
“Harper, one is probably enough for now; don’t you think?”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_dodgeball_  
  
Hollywood was right when they pulled the plug on your movie because you had no fucking clue how to make a movie, and that night was no different. You lay on your back on that floor in the dark with Brian patiently waiting for something to start until you couldn’t stand it anymore and sat up, startling him, “Okay, fuck it. I can’t do this. Nothing’s happening. I’m sorry; the date’s over.”  
  
You started to stand up, and he grabbed your hand and pulled you back down, “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Maybe we’re just a little early.”  
  
That’s not it.”  
  
“Well, maybe it’s just time for the previews,” he suggested.  
  
“There are no fucking previews, Brian. There’s nothing, okay? Absolutely nothing.”  
  
And again you started to stand up, and again he yanked you back down, “Lie down and shut up.”  
  
“I’m going to bed,” you protested.  
  
“No, you’re not. It’s starting right now. Please turn off your cell phone and be considerate of those around you.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_the breakfast club_  
  
Justin practically threw himself back down on the floor, full of his patented self-disgust, but he was listening to you as you began, “Three, two, one… "  
  
“Coming soon to a theater near—" he chimed in.  
  
“No, wait; this is just an advertisement,” you said.  
  
“Brian.”  
  
“Excuse me, it’s paying for the very ‘screen’ you’re watching this ‘movie’ on right now.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Oh look, it’s a very attractive, very talented guy having breakfast at The Waffle House. Hmm, wonder what’s so special about The _Waffle_ House?”  
  
“Illegal product placement,” he told you, “Not to mention atrocious timing.”  
  
You ignored his citation, “He goes every single day but only in New York City.”  
  
“Cut.”  
  
“Is he meeting someone there?”  
  
“Cut!”  
  
“What’s wrong with the plethora of Waffle Houses in Pittsburgh or West Virginia? Is he too good for them?”  
  
“CUT!”  
  
“To be continued…”  
  
“You pull another stunt like that, and you’ll be thawing third base out of a glacier in Antarctica,” he warned you.  
  
And you believed him, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears the answer to that question will remain a mystery.”  
  
“Much better.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
_son of Frankenstein_  
  
You grabbed your cigarettes and your lighter off the coffee table, lit up and started again, “We have a double feature tonight, ladies and gentlemen, a short film, if you will, starring my son, Gus, and then our feature presentation.”  
  
“What about Gus?” Justin asked.  
  
You raised your hands to set the stage, "Picture this: a penthouse in the Big Apple, a man so handsome, so beautiful--"  
  
"I thought this story was about Gus, not me."  
  
"Pardon me, my fair lady, but you're in a movie theater; you're supposed to be quiet."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Where was I? Oh yeah: Is he a god? No. Should he be? Quite possibly. Was it an oversight by the powers that be or a conspiracy concocted by those threatened by his je ne sais quoi--?"  
  
"ACTION!"  
  
"He receives a cellular telephone call from the mother of his child, a child who up to that day had brought him nothing but sheer joy--"  
  
"Would you please get to the good part?"  
  
"I thought artists liked to use their imaginations; my bad. Apparently, Gus refused to participate in gym class today because he was—and I quote—‘practicing being gay.’”  
  
“What the hell?”  
  
“Thank you; that’s pretty much what I told him.”  
  
“Did you yell at him, Brian?”  
  
“No, I did not yell at him. I simply pointed out that gay people enjoy physical activity just as much as anyone else.”  
  
“Okay, but you mean fucking when you say that.”  
  
“True...but I clarified and explained to him that there are plenty of gay athletes, that there’s not a straight man on this earth that could beat me at racquetball.”  
  
“What’d he say?”  
  
“He said, ‘Name one.”  
  
“Name a straight guy who can beat you in racquetball?” he asked.  
  
“No, name a gay athlete.”  
  
“Oh, what’d you say?”  
  
“I told him that only real gay people know who they are, so if he doesn’t know, he’s obviously not gay yet, so there’s no reason for him to be sitting out of gym class.”  
  
“Brian, give me a break.”  
  
“I was desperate; my mind went blank. I had to think of something.”  
  
“Hello? Drew Boyd? Duh?”  
  
“I told you; my mind froze. I panicked.”  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Brian Kinney, Father of the Year, via satellite from an insane asylum.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what’d you say? The applause is deafening.”  
  
“You need to have your head examined.”  
  
“I had my sushi earlier today, thank you. Okay, so anyway, he was sent to the fucking principal’s office because when the gym teacher told him his little ‘sit out’ had gone on long enough, he claimed he was being discriminated against, threatened to sue him, and then called the guy a homophobe.”  
  
“Oh Brian, you’ve created a little monster.”  
  
“I did not teach him that word. That’s probably Mel’s fault.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Maybe he learned it in English when they were teaching him the difference between homo _nyms_ and homo _phones_. Maybe he misunderstood,” Justin offered.  
  
“Well, regardless, I told him that he didn’t need to practice being gay. That if he’s gay, he just is, and if he’s not, then he’s not, and practicing is just completely unnecessary.”  
  
The extent to which Justin found that amusing was unbelievably uncalled for, “Yeah, ‘cause all those years of practicing never did you any good.”  
  
“I was not practicing; I was honing an art form.”  
  
“I’m sorry; did you say ‘honing’ or ‘humping?’” he asked you in between his obnoxious bouts of laughter.  
  
“ _Honing,”_ you informed him.  
  
“And did you say ‘art form’ or ‘art- _tist_?’”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
When he finally settled down, Justin asked, “So what did Gus say?”  
  
“He said, ‘Dad, I understand your point of view, and I know you’re my dad, but I still have rights under the constitution.’”  
  
“Oh my god. What’d you say?”  
  
“I said, ‘The hell you do, son; you live in Canada.’”  
  
“Oh god, Brian.”  
  
“Yeah, and then he told me that I needed to read this book he got from the library that says he’s an American citizen because he was born on American soil and that he has a right to due process and to appeal my decision—"  
  
“Oh, Jesus.”  
  
“Then he tried to give me the ISBN number of the fucking book.”  
  
“He did not.”  
  
“Yes he did, and then he started telling me about Rosa Parks, and I said, ‘Gus, Rosa Parks wasn’t gay; she was black,’ and he goes, ‘Well, maybe she was _both_ , Dad, and she was too ashamed and too oppressed to admit it. Have you ever thought about that?’”  
  
Justin’s hands were covering his face; he slid them down so you could see his eyes, “Please tell me that’s when you hung up.”  
  
“No, I just said, ‘Put your mother on the phone,’ and he said, ‘Which one?’ and I said, ‘You know damn well which one,’ and then Lindsay got back on the phone and asked me if I wanted him back.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I said, ‘Lindsay, it’s been a really long time since I’ve said those three little words to you…  
  
“Anonymous Sperm Donor.’”  
  
“That was mean, Brian.”  
  
“He’s becoming my worst nightmare; I seriously don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.”  
  
……  
  
Suddenly Justin’s hands were in front of your face forming the universal symbol for ‘time out.’ (He was apparently the ‘gay umpire.’)  
  
“Okay, whoa,” he said. “Let’s review. You, Brian Kinney, a man who staked his entire reputation on being sure that his sexuality walked through the door before he did doesn’t understand why his own son is obsessed about his?”  
  
( _This_ is exactly what’s wrong with Justin. You fuck him the first night you meet him and he’s automatically Smitten Twink Extraordinaire. He spends one evening with a shrink and he’s Freud.)  
  
“He’s probably having wet dreams about men, women, and anal beads, Brian, and doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. Have you talked to him?”  
  
“Now, you’re yelling at me.”  
  
“No, I’m not. I’m asking you. Have you talked to him?”  
  
“Yes, I have. Lindsay and I both have, a million times. We’ve talked to him together; we’ve talked to him apart; we’ve talked to him here, there, and everywhere,” you said waving your hands in the air like you were Emmett or something.  
  
“And?”  
  
“It doesn’t make any difference. He calls me every couple of months and tells me he still doesn’t know if he’s gay or straight, tells me he’s keeping me updated. What the hell am I supposed to say to that besides, ‘Okay, Gus. Thanks. I’d appreciate it you’d call me before three a.m. when you need to update me about this stuff?’”  
  
“He’s probably calling you at three in the morning because he’s waking up from a wet dream, duh.”  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about when he used to wear those cute little beanie hats,” you told him. “You know the ones that made him look like a tiny court jester?”  
  
“Yeah, well you need to teach him where to buy those for his other head now.”  
  
……  
  
“I missed his whole childhood,” you told Justin via the ceiling, “It can’t be time for this shit already.”  
  
“You need to talk to him Kinney-to-Kinney. His hormones are making him irrational.”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“Well, I’m sort of joking, but sort of not. He is _your_ son, Brian. I mean, for once in your life you need to be thinking with your other head and you're not.”  
  
"Ooh, score one for you."  
  
"He wants you to be proud of him, Brian, and he thinks he needs to be like you--obsessed with sex--so you will be. That's what he's confused about."  
  
…..  
  
You turned and looked at Justin who was still faithfully staring at your movie screen. He turned his head, facing you when you spoke, “It’s no coincidence that I met both of you on the same night, you know?”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
“You’re both exactly alike.”  
  
“I never wore cute little beanie hats.”  
  
“True,” you conceded, “But you both liked to suck on things.”  
  
……  
  
“You need to go talk to him, dick-to-dick,” he told you, "So he can picture something other than his dad when he gets a hard on."  
  
“And you both over-intellectualize the fuck out of everything.”  
  
……  
  
“I mean, come on, Brian, he’s the only penis in that house."  
  
“And neither of you ever cut me a fucking break.”  
  
……  
  
“He was such a cute little baby. And you were such a hot dad.”  
  
“Then again, you both love me unconditionally.”  
  
……  
  
“Sometimes I’d look at you when you were holding him, and I’d think, ‘I should not be getting turned on by this...'"  
  
“And you’re both beautiful.”  
  
……  
  
“Just think how weird it would be if he was going through all this _and_ they’d named him ‘Abraham,’” Justin pointed out.  
  
“And I love both of you so much it makes me crazy.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Yeah, I think you’re beautiful, too,” he said.  
  
……  
  
You flicked him in the head.  
  
"Ow. You're supposed to warn people in there's violence in your movie."  
  
"Yeah, well, I didn't want to give away the ending."

*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
_romancing the stone_  
  
When you lay down next to Richard that night, you felt like you were lying on a bed of nails. You knew you had to do something to break the tension between the two of you before calling it a night. The air between you was stuffed with expectation, not unlike those moments in a session when a patient has come to a crossroads and refuses to take another step.  
  
You glanced at the small clock on Harper’s desk:  
  
_11:44 p.m._  
  
Your eyes toured the moonlit studio, stopping on the chair you and Brian had placed in the room earlier that day. By that point, it truly didn't belong in Daniel's bedroom anymore having been further defiled with a plethora of tiny footprints, Amelia's little shoes. You tiptoed out of the gate with a safe subject as you both lay there on the sofa bed with more than a foot of space between you, “Amelia likes having that chair in here, doesn't she?”  
  
He laughed, “You can say that again; she went bananas when she saw it in here after dinner.”  
  
“What’d you guys end up having?”  
  
“Macaroni and cheese."  
  
“ _No,_ ” you said doling out far more sympathy than required.  
  
“Look, we gave up, the rain and everything. She was starving; that’s what Dan made. I ate it. Then we came up here because she wanted to paint a picture of Brian.”  
  
“Is that it?” you asked pointing to a painting on one of Harper’s easels.  
  
“Yeah, she ran out of room for the rest of his legs and his feet. They’re on the back. And then she pretended to be Daniel for the rest of the night. You know how he always reads to her in that chair?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, that’s what she was doing. Putting on these pink glasses she has--"  
  
"They were sunglasses; she popped the lenses out so she could look like him.”  
  
"Okay...so she must think Daniel looks like Elton John then.” You laughed. “Anyway, she put them on, read to Daniel and then put him to bed. And it worked; he went right to sleep. Then she read to me and tried to put me to bed, and when I didn't stay in the guest room; well, let's just say she wasn't too happy."  
  
"The trick with Amelia--well, all women, really--is to make her perceive that she's getting her way," you told him.  
  
"Like I don't know that; I have three sisters."  
  
"I know; I want to meet them."  
  
"No, you don't. Trust me,” he insisted.  
  
"Sure I do. I love women as long as they go easy on the perfume and don't want to fuck me. Hell, seventy percent of my patients are female."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Oh yeah. Women were made for the couch. Don't you have more women coming to confession that men?" you asked him.  
  
"Actually, yes," he admitted. "I never really thought about it."  
  
You were beginning to relax; felt like the ice between you was thawing a bit. “It makes sense, doesn't it? Men don't admit they're wrong; they just redefine the problem to fit their solution.”  
  
"Women don't?” he asked.  
  
"Not at all. Women have the completely opposite problem: they redefine a solution to prove they caused the problem.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“See, here's the thing: Hire a man to dig a ditch and when he shows up to dig it and the shovel you promised him isn't there, he says, 'Fuck it,' and goes home, right?"  
  
Richard smiled, "Yeah, pretty much."  
  
"But hire a woman to dig the same ditch with no promised shovel, and she'll wait an hour because the guy might show up with the shovel or maybe she got the time wrong, and then she'll look for a stick and something in her purse and try to make a shovel, and when that doesn't work, she'll just start digging it with her bare hands, work five hours past quitting time, and not ask for overtime pay because for all she knows, she's not even in the right place."  
  
"And that makes them good patients? Because they'll dig ditches with their bare hands for free?"  
  
“Kind of. Women will come to the couch willingly, but they'll be on it for years; men won't show up until the shit's about to fan, but they don't stay as long. Different method, same result. I'm generalizing, obviously.”  
  
“I think Amelia's a ditch digger,” he said to you.  
  
“She comes from a long line of ditch diggers, trust me.”  
  
“I think that's what happened tonight. She was digging her little ditch, and I stepped in it.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK'S POV**  
_she's all that_  
  
"You stepped in it?" Jon asked.  
  
"Yeah, the look on her face when I came back into the studio--"  
  
"Because you didn't do what you were supposed to do, right?"  
  
"Right. So, anyway..."  
  
And then you told him about your first solo adventure with the little Pink Princess...  
  
Amelia was back in the chair reading to one of her dolls when you walked back into the studio, and she looked up at you through the rims of her plastic pink glasses, her eyes getting bigger and bigger as you got closer and closer to her.  
  
"Amelia, it's time for bed," you said.  
  
"No."  
  
"I can read you a few books if you want. Why don't you pick some out?"  
  
" _No_ ," she said, pulling her feet and her doll and her book underneath her in the chair, " _You're_ 'upposed to go to bed."  
  
The fate she'd dealt Daniel was to be yours as well, and you were quite clearly engaging in an egregious breach of conduct by not being sufficiently lulled to sleep by an indignant little lady marching you down the hall, pushing you into the guest room, putting her hands on her hips and declaring, “You're 'upposed to go to bed,” and then coming closer—ostensibly to offer day-ending affection that was just a tiny face with dark brown eyes rimmed in pink plastic--saying, “And night night and don't letthebedbugsbite 'cause they're just betend.” Perhaps Amelia, unlike Jon, didn't know you had three sisters, and you were used to being bossed around and undoing it.  
  
"I can't go to bed. I need to wait for Jon to come back,” you told her. “Remember?”  
  
Now, the other thing you knew about having three sisters was that girls—from one to one hundred--don't like to be wrong, and Amelia was no exception, “Yeah, I 'membered that.” And then you sat on the ottoman in front of her, and she looked away.  
  
Because she was starting to cry...  
  
“Amelia,” you said, “What's the matter?”  
  
“I want Dr. Car-ride.”  
  
"Daniel's asleep, remember? You did such a good job when you put him to sleep, he's snoring. Listen." And then you cupped your hand to your ear. "Do you hear him?"  
  
……  
  
"Do my ear snored-ing," she said after a few seconds.  
  
"You can do it. Take your hand and put it around your ear like mine is." So she did, and you were both very quiet, and then, "I hearded Dr. Car-ride, Faber Domelly."  
  
"I know. He's sound asleep, isn't he?"  
  
"Yeah...'cause I readed to him onceuponatime."  
  
"You did great."  
  
"'Cause I already putted Dr. Car-ride to bed; I hafta put Mommy to bed now." And before you could say anything else, she began reading to the doll in her lap--the shortest story you ever heard, maybe three sentences--climbed down from the chair, walked down the hall, disappeared into the guest room, and then reappeared in the studio heading straight for her corner of baby dolls and stuffed animals. She yanked a teddy bear out of the pile and climbed back in the chair, "Time for Daddy onceuponatime." And on and on she went...  
  
"Time for Dr. Jon onceuponatime.  
  
"Time for Waffle onceuponatime good night.  
  
"Time for Brime Kinney onceuponatime _right now._  
  
"Time for gingerbed lello sumarine onceuponatime so tired.  
  
"Time for Sarah-Macy onceuponatime."  
  
"You're making me tired, Amelia," you told her, "You're working so hard."  
  
"Yeah...I already knowed that," she told you, sighing like she was exhausted as she stood over her dwindling pile of possible onceuponatimes and then chose a big white floppy rabbit. She walked cross the studio and handed it to you, "Time for Uncle Alan onceuponatime." And then she climbed into the chair for the last time.  
  
"Uncle Alan?" you asked her.  
  
"Yeah, 'cause he had to go to the hobspital...'cause he was boken...'cause I knowed that 'cause...'cause...," and then her voice went up very high joining her hands as she shrugged her little shoulders, "'Cause I just borgot."  
  
"So, okay, what are you going to read to him?" you asked her.  
  
"No, _you_ ," she insisted, shoving a book in your lap. "You say onceuponatime."  
  
"You want me?"  
  
"You do it."  
  
“Okay.”  
  
So you began with that one after she got comfortable in your lap with 'Uncle Alan,' and you read to both of them, several stories ending with _Mama, If You Had a Wish_ because it had a two bunnies on it, Amelia said, "'Cause one is me, AmeliaJocelynHarperCollins, and one is UncleAlan-onceuponatime." She was falling asleep in your lap toward the end of the story and was sound asleep for the last two or three pages but you read them anyway...for Uncle Alan-onceuponatime, and then you closed the book, tucking it in the cushion beside you, and sat in that chair with Amelia and Uncle Alan-onceuponatime for at least ten minutes before carrying both of them to bed, mentally reworking your sermon for the next morning as you stared out the window at the pouring rain.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Jon was lying on his side, just looking at you when you finished talking, and he reached out and put his palm on your chest, "Alan gave her that rabbit and that book last Christmas. They were in a box on Daniel's front steps on Christmas morning with a note from him."  
  
“They were?”  
  
"She likes-- _liked_ \--to dance for him, and that rabbit has those elastic straps on it's feet so she can hook them to hers and they dance together.”  
……  
  
"Jon..."  
  
"I know. You don't have to say it. I know."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
But you said it anyway, "She knows he's gone; that's why she saved him for last.”  
  
“She believes everything she hears,” Jon said. “There's only once upon a time.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_the iceman cometh_  
  
And then just when you thought that the time for talking might be drawing to a close, that you might be moving your hand down Richard's chest...  
  
His voice echoed in the darkness, “I think I said something to Harper tonight, that I shouldn't have.”  
  
“You sound like you're in confession,” you told him stilling your hand and your thoughts of moving it.  
  
“I think I am.”  
  
“What'd you say?” you asked him.  
  
“Well, she came to get Amelia, wanted to know why Daniel and I were here and you weren't, so I told her where you were; she got upset about Justin, said she felt like she was losing another brother...”  
  
“Oh boy.”  
  
“So I told her that she wasn't because it wasn't the same situation, because Justin's not Alan; she didn't grow up with him; they don't share the same life experience--"  
  
……  
  
And then he stopped talking..., “And?”  
  
“She basically told me to go to hell.”  
  
“She's right,” you said.  
  
“ _You_ are an ass.”  
  
“ _You_ are a dumb ass,” you told him, “Don't stand in Harper's way when she's digging, or you're going to get whacked upside the head with her shovel.”  
  
“She doesn't need to walk around with the whole world on her skinny little shoulders,” he argued.  
  
“She doesn't know any other way to live, Richard. It's the only language she speaks. She's learning another way, but it's a slow process, and this whole fiasco set her back quite a bit _as one might expect._ ”  
  
_Duh._  
  
“Whatever,” he said, and then he turned away from you, and then you felt like you were going to sleeping next to a wall that only the late, great Ronald Reagan could tear down.  
  
……  
  
So you pondered your options...  
  
……  
  
And then made a decision.  
  
“Richard?”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Can we just rewind tonight? Just take it from when I walked in the door or something?”  
  
……  
  
He didn't say anything right away, so you waited. You'd waited as long as forty minutes in a session, so it was no big deal to you; you'd seen plenty of psychological wheels get stuck in the mud.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
"No."  
  
"Richard--" you were protesting when he finished his sentence.  
  
"Daniel's in a ditch he can't get out of,” he said.  
  
……  
  
You sighed, and then his words hung between the two of you like a bad smell that just wouldn't go away, and when you didn't say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing, he added, “He's very upset about Justin.”  
  
"Yeah, well, so am I."  
  
"It's just that tonight when we were playing with Amelia; I mean, you can just tell, Jon. He thinks she's the only friend he has left." You were going to say something but bit your tongue. "I don't feel good about tomorrow, not at all."  
  
"Well, what do you want me to do?" you asked him.  
  
"I don't think you should've pulled him into this thing with Justin--"  
  
"That's not what I asked you."  
  
"This wasn't the right time to sacrifice that friendship. It's isolated him during the one time when he doesn't need to be alone."  
  
"Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils, Richard."  
  
"Sometimes you have to make decisions with your heart and not your ego-llect, Jon."  
  
“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” you asked him.  
  
“I'm just saying that this ditch is huge, and it's a pile on now, and Daniel's at the bottom, and he's getting crushed; that's all I'm saying, okay?”  
  
You were both sitting up by that point, and you got out of bed because pacing is integral to anger as far as your body is concerned, “You think I don't know that?”  
  
“No,” he said, “I _know_ you know it, and that's what's pissing me off. You all know it, and no one is there for him. He found him, Jon, found his bloody, mangled body in front of his own fucking house, and you're running around town playing shrink to the stars, and roping Dan into helping you do it, and he's here with a fucking three year old trying to keep his shit together, and--"  
  
“Okay, okay--"  
  
“It's not okay. And then you're telling me that I'm the dumb ass? _You're_ the fucking dumb ass.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You crossed your arms and leaned against the window, cool against your shoulder, and stared down at your bare feet, “You're right, okay?”  
  
“I don't give a fuck about being right; I give a fuck about all this goddamn suffering around us. I give a fuck about tomorrow. I've got a hundred transients, two shrinks, three mental cases, Sonny and Cher, Rocky, a Martin Scorsese wannabe and Shirley Temple coming to my church tomorrow for some kind of closure, and I have no fucking clue how I'm going to pull this off.”  
  
You looked at him, at his insistent posture sitting up in bed, at his gay hands flying his front of his face as he whisper-yelled at you and told him, “We're going to wing it.”  
  
“That's your med school, diploma on your wall, initials after your name answer? 'We're going to wing it?'”  
  
“Yes, that's my professional opinion.”  
  
“I'm glad I'm not paying for this.”  
  
“Me, too,” you said as you got back into bed next to him, “Because I'd probably end up having to give you a refund.”  
  
……  
  
"And what exactly does this 'winging it' plan of yours entail?" he asked you.  
  
"It has two steps," you told him.  
  
"And they are?"  
  
"Step one is have a little faith."  
  
"Okay, what's step two?" he asked.  
  
"Repeat step number one."  
  
*********************  
_the remains of the day_  
  
"Are you going to hit me if I touch you?" you asked him.  
  
He laughed, "Have I ever hit you when you touched me?"  
  
"No," you admitted, "But you've also never called me a dumb ass or chewed me a new asshole, either, so I'm just checking."  
  
"That asshole chewing thing...you like that."  
  
……  
  
"I've never seen you so angry," you told him taking his hand and pushing it between your legs, "But I guess I like it."  
  
"Only you would endure the wrath of God and get a boner."  
  
You pressed his hand against your balls, "Grapes of Wrath."  
  
"On steroids maybe."  
  
You kissed him in that tentative _what are we doing here?_ way, the way you used to kiss him the first few times you fucked him, made him come after you a little if he wanted more, wanted to string his desire between the two of you and then watch him walk the rickety bridge back to you, and it worked, and when he came back for more, you put your hand behind his head and kissed him _hard_ , and the only reason you stopped was to tell him, "Suck me."  
  
And in mere seconds, you were sitting up in the sofa bed, leaning back against the scratchy fabric, watching him as he settled between your legs, pulling his hair when he was about to swallow you so he'd look at you, "Deluxe, please."  
  
And then he spent three minutes teasing you, kissing your stomach, the inside of your thighs, until you ran your hands down both legs denying him that surface area and closed them a little, but they were wide open five minutes later when you were buried in his mouth, your hands pressing on the back of the sofa as you fucked his face.  
  
You were soaked with his spit-an intentional waterfall, could feel it running between your legs, and you were burning up when you grabbed a knot of his hair and lifted your hips for a move the two of you had choreographed and mastered over the past few months, and he pushed his wet fingers inside you, and you released his hair and started coming down his throat.  
  
You chanted, and he pushed them harder, not stopping until you stopped begging him, and when your body sagged, his moved so he could lay his head on your chest, and you fixed his hair and told him, "That was perfect."  
  
"It's better when we use that dildo," he said. "It takes days for your toes to uncurl."  
  
"Sometimes I'd rather feel you," you said, "Your fingers have more dexterity than a Mansize SuperThruster 1000."  
  
"True."  
  
“I’m sorry I was such a dick all day."  
  
“You can’t help it.” You wanted to be insulted, but he was right. “Jon, sometimes you have to remember that some of what you do is church-like; you need to let people come in on their own.”  
  
“I prefer the catch-and-release method,” you told him.  
  
“I know you do, but humanity is not a dog pound.”  
  
Richard smelled so good, having him suck you off and then lay there all semi-sweaty and warm was heaven, “Have you looked at humanity lately, Richard? I mean, come on.”  
  
“Perhaps you need new glasses.”  
  
……  
  
Maybe you did, but at that moment, you didn't really care. All you wanted was to get in his ass, to fuck him, to give both of you a physical and emotional release you needed, and to repair some of the damage you'd done, so you said, “If you make me wait a week to fuck you, you’re going to end up in the hospital needing an emergency ass-endectomy.”  
  
“Is that right?” he asked in his sleepy voice, his arms wrapping around your torso.  
  
“And your insurance won’t cover it, trust me.”  
  
“I’ll call the Vatican tomorrow and ask.” _Damn it._  
  
His eyes were closed on your chest; you ran the back of your hand down the side of his face, " _I need to fuck you,_ " you whispered.  
  
He smiled and you let your fingers trace its path on his cheek. "You need to _fuck_ ," he said.  
  
"I need to fuck _you_."  
  
“You know, they still haven’t answered my other inquiry about whether we can officially specify that the three Wise Men at Jesus’s birth were Earth, Wind, and Fire.”  
  
“That’s because you sent that email on April Fool’s Day, Richard.”  
  
“Well,” he sighed, “Timing is everything.”  
  
……  
  
“Yes, it is, and you have ten seconds to roll over on your own.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You really should learn to listen to Richard.  
  
He rolled over in three.  
  
He was moaning in six.  
  
And laughing at you in eight.  
  
……  
  
At ten, you were walking buck naked into Daniel’s bedroom with the world’s biggest boner stealing a rubber out of his nightstand drawer.  
  
……  
  
Somewhere in heaven, God was probably so fucking proud of himself.  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_say anything_  
  
As the credits were running on your short film, Justin was fidgeting next to you, sighing a lot, but you said nothing, lying quietly beside him, watching the window, your hands flattened on your chest. He said nothing for several minutes.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
But finally, “Brian?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I shouldn’t have asked you to go on this date with me; I don’t have a movie.”  
  
“Damn it, I want my money back.”  
  
“I’m being serious.”  
  
“I know you are,” you said. “What’s the problem? What’s making it so hard?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Throw out a reason; who cares if it’s the wrong one?” you encouraged him.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I’m not you,” he finally said.  
  
……  
  
The room felt suddenly lighter, and you stole a quick glance to see if he was hovering off the floor; he wasn’t. You focused back on the window, tried to keep everything the same, not wanting him to run back in his rabbit hole, “Okay, why does that make a difference?”  
  
……  
  
“You know who you are,” he told you. “I don’t.”  
  
……  
  
There was a part of you that wanted to sit up and say, ‘ _That’s what I meant when I said I broke your big break,_ ’ but you didn’t dare. You lay there following the rules of the date he’d invited you on.  
  
It was a privilege after all.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_moonlighting_  
  
You didn’t know that as you were desperately trying to conjure up an image or a way to explain how you were feeling that night that Amelia had already painted her version, acted it out, and been put to bed—for the first time, that Nate was still up, that something Harper had said to him at dinner was still on his mind, that Daniel had cried himself to sleep over you and Alan and Harper and everything, that the only way Zeek was able to get through buying a suit for the funeral was by fucking the guy who sold it to him, or that Jonathon had screamed himself to sleep over the things that were so fucking wrong in the world not understanding that if they weren’t, neither he nor Richard would have jobs. You didn’t know that beneath the city Stitch was wide awake walking from group to group still trying to convince them that it was safe to come upstairs in the morning, that you weren’t the only one worried about tomorrow.  
  
You didn’t know that Gabe had talked his father into closing the restaurant on Friday even though it wasn’t one of Alan’s official stops and that Mama Zirrolli insisted on cooking anyway and, “We’ll give it to them, Gabriel. You tell the people at the church; you tell your brother to bring them here. They can eat here afterwards.” That when Gabe told her who was coming to the funeral, she didn’t care who they were, that she was down right insulted when Gabe pointed out to her that they didn’t have any money, and that he felt like shit after that because he hadn’t exactly been a gentleman to Alan the day they’d met, the same day he met the man still lying next to you on the floor in your New York City penthouse, the man still waiting for your movie to start.  
  
All you knew was that things weren’t moving fast enough for you, and that if you tried to get back up, Brian was going to smack you back down.  
  
“It’s hard to make a movie about yourself when you don’t know who you are,” you said to him.  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“That’s kind of my problem right now.”  
  
“Okay, let’s start with what we know, or, rather, with what you know, like what we do at Kinnetik when we get an account that we didn’t really want, like tampons or something.”  
  
“Do not compare me to tampons.”  
  
“I’m not. You know what I mean. You came out before and said you were pissed at me—"  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Because I took your clothes.”  
  
“Wrong.”  
  
“Start from there.”  
  
“Well, it’s complicated,” you said.  
  
“Undoubtedly.”  
  
“It’s hard for me to say I’m mad at you because I love you.”  
  
“You don’t have to stop loving me just because you’re mad at me. I mean, unless you want to.”  
  
“No, I don’t want to.”  
  
“Okay,” he said. “Why are you mad?”  
  
You were both staring straight ahead which was beginning to make the whole thing feel much safer to you, and you started to see something…yourself…kind of. “Everybody knows who you are, practically the whole world now because even if they don’t know you, they’ve seen your work, and you don’t even know me at all.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And how can you really love me if you don’t really know who I am?” You paused, “And I can I even expect you to if _I_ don’t know who I am?”  
  
Brian sighed.  
  
You continued, “I feel like you think I’m this brilliant, talented artist; this person with this amazing potential, like the talent I have is on par with the creative talent you have—"  
  
“I do.”  
  
“But I don’t think you understand or even care-- No, I don’t mean that you don’t care; I mean, I don’t think it ever occurred to you that I wanted my life to be about more than that, because if my life was about more than that, then my art would be, too.” You glanced over at him, “Are you about to kill me?”  
  
“Not at all; keep going.”  
  
“I’m not you…. I don’t see the world the way you see it; I don’t want to own it or control it or understand all of it. I actually like it all fucked up.”  
  
“Hence, your choice of husband?”  
  
“Ha, ha.”  
  
And then your movie started to play, took off right in front of your face…  
  
*********************  
_edge of seventeen_  
  
A picture is worth a thousand words, and finally, it began to deliver…  
  
“Okay, before I go any further, I need to explain that my movie doesn’t go in order, and it’s probably very confusing.”  
  
“So it’s Faulkner, stream of consciousness?” Brian asked.  
  
“Well, I was going to say Joyce, but yeah, same thing.”  
  
“Duly noted.”  
  
“Okay, for instance, I played tennis when I was a little kid. I can see myself out on the court at our country club every summer—tan and blond—and I was the _worst_ tennis player you ever saw. I hated it. I begged my parents not to make me go, but every summer, my dad insisted that I take tennis lessons because he played tennis and of course, I wasn’t involved in any other sport, so I had nothing to bargain with or anything. So every fucking summer, I’d go out there in my new tennis clothes—which, by the way, was the only thing I liked about tennis—"  
  
Brian laughed.  
  
“And I’d give it my worst possible effort so I wouldn’t have to go back the next year. But guess what? The tennis pro at the country club was gay; he was one of those not-out guys that you never suspected until you realized that you never saw him with anyone but the golf pro, you know? So, when my mom or dad would come pick me up and ask him how I did, he would lie and say that I was getting better or showing improvement in my backhand or whatever so that—"  
  
“He could hang out with you in the locker room?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“That weasel.”  
  
“He never tried anything with me, but that was probably because I caught on to him, and we had this silent, unspoken war going on between us for at least three years. I’d go to my tennis lesson and fuck up like you have never seen; I’d beam him with the ball whenever I could or just stand there like a statue; I mean, it’s kind of funny now, and then he’d follow me into the locker room and try to pretend he wasn’t watching me change into my bathing suit or take a shower or whatever. And then at the end of each summer, we’d have these little country club tournaments, and he’d always put me on the roster, and I’d always embarrass the fuck out of him and lose to the worst tennis player in the world in the first round just to piss him off and my dad at that point.”  
  
“This is why I love you.”  
  
“So then I turned sixteen, and I could drive myself to my lessons, so I quit showing up, and he charged my parents anyway, and then my dad found out I wasn’t going and that he was still being charged and the shit hit the fan, and he was fired, but when he was fired, the golf pro quit, too, and then everybody figured it out—"  
  
“And the next year, you decided to take tennis lessons on Liberty Avenue instead?”  
  
“Yeah,” you sighed, “I was trying to find a sport I liked.”  
  
“Hit that one out of the park, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know why I only attract pros.”  
  
“Because your ass is a magnet and you have the face of an angel, that’s why.”  
  
“Brian.”  
  
He reached down, grabbed his crotch, and grinned at you, “Sorry, but the truth squirts.”  
  
You kicked him because he deserved it, “Okay, but our relationship has to be based on more than sex.”  
  
“It is. It’s based on lots of sex.”  
  
“Brian, cut it out. I’m being serious.”  
  
“Justin, if our relationship was based solely on sex, would I be lying here on this hard floor staring at a movie I can’t see keeping my hands to myself listening to you explain why you’re pissed at me?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
“Keep talking; I’m listening.”  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_eternal sunshine of the spotless mind_  
  
He kept going, and it was truly a relief to you because as you listened to him, you began to feel the meaning behind some of Jon’s words.  
  
“ _You have to understand … how high the stakes are for Justin. He's killing himself trying to do the impossible. He’ll do anything to keep you safe…seeing you in pain is unbearable to him…”_  
  
Those words you’d spoken to him, “ _It’s only time,”_ were being revised…  
  
_It’s only perspective._  
  
And you realized that you’d already done it to him again less than two hours prior: Justin hadn’t walked away from _you_ all those times you’d watched him go; he’d walked away from what he could no longer handle. Your emotions or lack thereof were not his problem; your regret that very night was not his problem. In ten years, he’d practiced and perfected that half of the circle, gotten strong enough to walk away and now he was trying to complete the loop, trying to find the courage to face the full circle now that he’d come back.  
  
It wasn’t easy to lie there and listen and wait and listen and wait, but when you considered how much pressure he’d been under in his life and he wasn’t even thirty, it became easier and easier. He deserved all the time in the world.  
  
……  
  
“Okay, so now it’s time for Act Two,” he said.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So, the reason I was telling you that is because that experience is kind of what I thought you and I had in common when we met even though I never told you about it, but our relationship was so intense and so strange and then I got hurt, and then everything changed and none of that shit even mattered anymore.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“That fucked everything up.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“We have to talk about this; there are things I’ve never told you, things I’m still afraid to tell you…”  
  
“Why are you afraid?” you asked him.  
  
……  
  
His voice changed, his eyes moved from his movie screen to his hands. You didn’t realize it right then, but you’d hit his pause button.  
  
“I have a million reasons, I guess, the obvious one being that talking about it makes you relive it and making you relive it—"  
  
“It’s okay; I know.”  
  
……  
  
“You said that one time that it was like I got hit all over again, remember?” he asked you.  
  
……  
  
“Yeah,” you breathed out, feeling a tear push out of the corner of your eye and prepare to do a flying cannonball down your face. Justin stopped talking, scooting over and rolling on his side so he could be right next to you. He caught the traitorous droplet before it ran down your face. “Thanks,” you said quietly.  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
……  
  
His arm extended across your chest, “I don’t want to upset you, Brian. This is why—"  
  
“The world’s not going to end just because I get upset.”  
  
…….  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He said nothing in response, just rested his head on your chest.  
  
But the room wasn’t exactly quiet.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Didn’t know this movie was gonna be such a tear jerker,” you said after a few minutes.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
So many things were running through your mind, so many images; some you wanted to stop and freeze frame and really examine and some you wanted to fast forward and pretend you never saw, but they were only there for one reason, and when they were done flying by, Jon’s words followed them like the billboard on a tour bus full of emotional groupies, “ _You have to understand … how high the stakes are for Justin. You’re more to him than his lover or his partner. You’re his foundation.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You wound your fingers in between his on your chest, “Justin?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
He exhaled when you said his name, the sob he was holding hostage making it’s escape, his body jerking in response, "…What?"  
  
……  
  
“ _Our_ world’s not going to end if I get upset; _your_ world isn’t; _my_ world isn’t. We’ll just go visit some parts of it we’ve never seen before, that’s all.”  
  
……  
  
“I believe you when you say that, but seeing you get upset is…and if I think I’m the one causing it, I can’t—"  
  
“You’re not the one causing it,” you told him.  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
For a man who’d made millions finessing the art of persuasion, you felt like a pathetic amateur at that moment.  
  
……  
  
Your body had shifted trying to help you; you were on your side facing him, holding him against you, and you let it take over while your mind searched for something to say. You could feel your heartbeat, the rhythm like footsteps, first forward, but then, no…backwards—to earlier that night, to when he came back, to that brisk November day...  
  
And it paused there for a minute, idling. And you began to question why you jumped on that plane so fast to get him, why you didn't call him first, give him the option of attending Chris's funeral, why you felt like you just had to show up out of nowhere. Was the closure that you so desperately needed fueling you that night? Did you use him like a bump you'd take in the backroom, something that would heighten the experience, make it worthwhile, maybe get you to your release? And then you felt like something that deserved to live in the sewer.  
  
And then you thought about when he left and when you spoke, your own voice surprised you; it was trying to soothe both of you, “Can you calm down and listen to me for a minute?”  
  
“I’m trying.”  
  
You tried to pull back from him a little so you could see his face, but he wouldn’t let go, so you let him stay where he was, deciding to go ahead and propose something to him that was far more valuable than anything you’d ever offered him up to that moment in your lives,  
  
“Justin, if I’m willing to accept that what happened to you is not my fault, will you accept that you’re not responsible for the way I feel about what happened to you?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
His body became very still in your arms.  
  
He stopped sniffing.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And then he moved again, pulling away from you a little so he could look up at you. You brushed his hair off his forehead. “Are you serious?” he asked.  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
……  
  
He ran a grateful hand across your chest, "You think you can do that for me?"  
  
“I can and I will," you told him. "I'll do anything for you."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
The six years of waiting and wondering crystallized into that moment that night, and you could see it in him as powerfully as you could feel it in yourself. There was a true method to this renewing madness the two of you had been going through; there was a journey underway, circular for years, sewer-bound and spinning like you were destined to go down a drain at times, but that had suddenly stopped, terminated at a legitimate fork in the road, and it was the reason you were lying on that hard penthouse floor holding him as the relief flowed through his body. The last time you’d seen such pure, untainted pleasure on his face was the first night you met him...  
  
You had something to offer him that you’d never even considered before, something only you could give him, something he truly needed, the unspoken vow of your partnership finally confirmed. And while you had to concede that your end of the proposal might be a bit of a illusion for a while—a true work in progress--you knew that giving it to him meant pardoning yourself as well, and if it took doing it for him to make it happen for you, then that’s what it would take.  
  
_Because some sacrifices are merely investments in disguise._  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_a league of their own_  
  
Someone had kicked the exit doors to your theater wide open and there in the middle of the night, in the middle of your movie, there was sunlight streaming in, and you snaked your arms around Brian's neck, and he just looked at you for a few seconds like he just wanted to look at you or something, and you said, “Will you just kiss me, please?” and he smiled a little bit and put his fingers on the edge of your face like he needed you even closer than you were, and he closed his eyes before you did and that almost never happens, only you didn’t even realize that until that night, and all of a sudden you wanted to be able to kiss and talk at the same time and tell him how much you loved him, how sometimes your heart just exploded inside you so hard, but you couldn’t say that because he was kissing you really, really hard.  
  
“ _Jesus, god,_ he steamed into your neck, and before you realized how badly you wanted it, you felt his hand in your pants, and the moan you set free wasn’t even finished before he’d turned you away from him, pulled them down, and pushed your thigh out of the way, his jeans in a heap two feet away by some act of ecstatic terrorism. His left arm appeared underneath you and pulled you back against him, his forehead bearing down on your shoulder and then you felt his hand guiding his cock, spreading you; you couldn’t move; he had you pinned, so you let escape the only thing you could, his name into your pillow.  
  
“ _Want you,”_ he said as he pushed inside you, his hand spreading wide on your ass, kneading it as if he was trying to make room, squeezing it hard, and then slowing everything down. _”Uh,”_ he groaned into your neck as he slid deep inside you, “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”  
  
“Not yet,” you whispered.  
  
“I won’t; I just…need this…right now.”  
  
“Me, too,” you said, pulling his hand off of your hip and wrapping it around you. “I’ve needed this for a really long time.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And you didn't want to see it, all you wanted was to feel it, to hear it, so you pressed back against him with your eyes closed, with his arms wrapped around you, and just that incremental movement tightened his body around yours, and, _"Stop,"_ he whispered behind you. And when he felt your muscles relax a little, give up a little, he kissed your shoulders, tucked your hair back so he could touch the side of your face. _"Fuck me,"_ you breathed, and the request came solely from your body, not your mind or your heart, and somehow he knew that and said, "I will...when I'm ready," basically ignoring your request and for some reason that made you smile.  
  
And there were minutes ticking by and neither of you were acknowledging the existence of time, you were watching his hand move down your neck and then your chest and then your stomach, all in your mind's eye, and trying to guess which time it wouldn't stop, and you were always wrong, but then you weren't, and his hand was _very_ close to how badly you wanted him, so you snuck one of your hands down and moved his over a little, and he laughed very low in your ear, "When _I'm_ ready."  
  
"You're ready now," you told him.  
  
"Your impatience makes your ass tighter."  
  
"I'm getting _very_ impatient."  
  
"In a minute."  
  
His response put you in a bit of a predicament because you no longer knew what a minute was...  
  
Somehow he'd exiled your hands from your own dick, so they were tucked under your pillow in protest, but when you felt his hand move ever so slightly, you released one of them, reaching back behind you and resting it--pressure free--on his hip, just so it was ready when he was.  
  
You heard yourself saying his name as his fingertips skimmed the head of your cock, slipping around and then back down again and begging him when he was cooking words behind your ear, _"You're unbelievably wet."_  
  
Everything that came out of your mouth sounded mostly like a variation of, _"Uh."_  
  
But then he started stroking you, his dick _still_ so still inside you, and that hand resting on his hip, well, it suddenly got a mind of it's own and slapped him...  
  
And then it said, "Don't."  
  
……  
  
And that was pretty much the last thing it ever said that night...  
  
Because it was flattened on the sheet in front of your face keeping the rest of you from being smothered by the lecture Brian was giving your ass, and holy fuck, it was _so_ good to be back in school again.  
  
In the front row, no less.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And before he was done, he made sure you at least got a passing grade.  
  
And then, um, _class dismissed._  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_gentlemen prefer blondes_  
  
Bedtime was after one a.m. that Thursday night, or rather, that Friday morning. In your younger days, you would’ve slept wherever the last fuck had ended, but sleeping on the floor didn’t have quite the luster that it used to, so the two of you had gotten up, straightened up the living room, and gotten ready for bed.  
  
As far as Justin was concerned, the best part of getting room service at The Regency was putting the cart with all of the dirty dishes in the elevator and sending it down to the kitchen all by itself. “Brian, why can’t we put an elevator in our bedroom so we can do this?” he called to you as he enjoyed the highlight of his evening.  
  
“Because that’s what dumbwaiters are for,” you called back from your perch on the actual bed, lit cigarette in one hand, remote control in the other hoping to glance at the markets one more time before calling it a night.  
  
……  
  
“Why does the waiter have to be dumb?” he asked.  
  
……  
  
(Clearly, he wouldn’t have to be as long as Justin was living there.)  
  
…..  
  
When he walked back into the bedroom, he took one look at your face, “What’s so funny?”  
  
“You.”  
  
He crawled across the bed and got underneath the sheets with you, “Why?” and then he took your cigarette from you so he could smoke it.  
  
……  
  
“Haven’t you ever seen a dumbwaiter?” you asked him.  
  
“Yeah, most of the waiters at our country club were idiots.”  
  
……  
  
You busted out laughing.  
  
……  
  
“What did I say?” he asked. “What?” You couldn’t even answer him. “Stop laughing at me. Your eyes are watering, Jesus.”  
  
Finally, you calmed down enough to explain to him what a dumbwaiter was as opposed to a ‘dumb waiter,’ and then he promptly announced that he pretty much hated you.  
  
“Oh, come on. It was funny.” He gave you back your cigarette, laid down and pretended to ignore you. “And by funny, I mean cute and adorable.”  
  
“No, you don’t. You mean stupid.”  
  
You stubbed out your cigarette, turned off the nightstand lamp and lay down beside him, “I do not mean stupid, you little drama queen.”  
  
“You just insulted me again, Brian.”  
  
“I did not,” you told him, taking astute notice of the fact that he wasn’t exactly pushing you away or stopping you when your finger ran up and down his perfect little crack. “I happen to think you’re very, very smart.”  
  
“Why?” he asked, stopping your hand, apparently your permission to move it was contingent upon a satisfactory answer.  
  
“Because you have excellent taste in men?”  
  
“Try again, asshole.”  
  
……  
  
It took you a second to realize that he was calling you an _asshole_ and not commanding you to do something that involved one of your favorite parts of his body. Good marital communication takes _years_ of practice.  
  
……  
  
“Because you fuck one of America’s best gay athletes?”  
  
“Fucking is not a sport, Brian, and I don’t just fuck you, I'm your own personal Bowflex machine."  
  
……  
  
(Well, that’s a chicken and egg issue, but sometimes when you’re married, you have to pick your battles.)  
  
……  
  
The third one had to be the charm, right?  
  
……  
  
“Because you see through all my bull shit and love me anyway?”  
  
(Where the _hell_ did that come from?)  
  
“Well, that’s not the number one answer on the board, but I’ll accept it.”  
  
(Then what the hell is? You spit that out and didn’t even win? Fell on your sword for honorable mention? What? And why were you talking again?)  
  
“Well, if it’s not the right answer, then I retract it,” you announced.  
  
“You can’t retract it.”  
  
“Yes, I can.”  
  
“No, you can’t. The sheer nature of your answer makes it un-retractable. That’s the point.”  
  
……  
  
“Fucking dumbwaiter,” you said to the back of his head.  
  
“Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault.”  
  
……  
  
Marriage, unbelievably similar to parenthood, means the joke—even when you tell it—is always on you.  
  
*********************  
_braveheart_  
  
When Justin fell asleep that night, he was lying right beside you on his stomach, facing you with the remnants of a smile on his face. He’d fallen asleep trying to tell you more about his movie, none of it making much sense because he was so tired; each word he spoke coming out slower than the next, his hand draped on your shoulder.  
  
“You’re falling asleep,” you told him, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”  
  
“You have to remind me…because I don’t remember…what I’m trying to remember…”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“’Kay,” he said, and he closed his eyes for good.  
  
Had you been an artist like Justin, you probably would’ve painted a museum’s worth of paintings that night with what was running through your head as you tried to fall asleep, but you were Brian Kinney, the ad man, and you’d trained yourself to see your life in thirty second montages, to shoot a lot of footage, write a lot of copy, and then go into the editing room and start chopping until your message—day after day, week after week, year after year--was pure and succinct. Had that been your task that night, you would’ve been watching a brand new spot when all was said and done because you’d done the unthinkable, taken a product, a brand name, that everyone had known for forty years and re-invented it from the inside out.  
  
Maybe it was because you were such a success, because you never met a product you couldn’t sell, because you’d surrounded yourself with smart, loyal people and good friends.  
  
Or maybe it was because you were a father, because the inner terror of becoming one just like yours had never come to fruition, because your own son didn’t fear you; he challenged you—in court if necessary--because despite how crazy he made you, you had to confess to seeing yourself in him, his courage, his drive, his unflappable determination to speak his own mind in a house full of vagina monologues.  
  
Or maybe it was because Justin was going to be okay _because_ you were in his life and not in spite of it, because you finally truly understood that love wasn’t a threat--to either of you. The image of a superhero that you’d subscribed to since you were a boy—bold lines, bright colors, everything else so black and white…you were beginning to see that it was the product of a _boy’s_ imagination, a boy who desperately needed a superhero even worse than he needed to be one. And when those colors and capes and capital letters finally sunk into the background, you could see the real hero standing there.  
  
And he was no crusader or mogul or millionaire, he was just a man who understands that our most formidable villains lie within ourselves, who accepts that love isn’t about giving up or giving in but about giving what you can and being there when someone is ready to give back, who knows that his personal wealth can be stated on a balance sheet in a boardroom but only truly appreciated on ones made of Egyptian cotton in a bedroom, who realizes that love is misguided yet well-intentioned sacrifice, beginnings disguised as endings, that it's fear trapped in dogma, and that in the meantime, at it's best and at it's worst, love is always a bit of a benign, and in your case, a well-dressed masquerade.  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_through a glass darkly_  
  
The empty bottle of brandy on the bathroom counter, you didn’t remember it that way.  
  
_4:02 a.m._  
  
A scalding hot shower.  
  
Too many clean shirts in the closet for a Friday. A white shirt chosen as if it was Monday, navy pants, the ones you don’t really like, a belt somewhere. Shoes you got for Christmas.  
  
From yourself.  
  
Coffee in the kitchen, staring out the little window over the sink, staring at the road like there was nothing of value out there. Mug in the sink, light off, burgundy tie pulled out of its hiding place in your office. Monday’s evidence that Jonathon thought he’d discarded when you weren’t looking, tied once again in the bathroom mirror. Watch centered on your wrist; it’s a little too big.  
  
Lights turned off, front door unlocked as you left for work, closing the door behind you, leaving your briefcase to stand alone, untaken.  
  
Unnecessary.  
  
*********************  
_die another day_  
  
……  
  
“Why didn’t you scream?” you asked him, the brick steps unyielding underneath you; your face pressed against the wrought iron railing because it just felt good, felt crucial, to push so hard against something so inhuman.  
  
_I tried._  
  
“I was in the kitchen. I was right there. I would’ve—"  
  
_Called the police?_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
And then you moved, sitting on that very spot, leaning against the steps, your hand in the mulch you’d found him in…  
  
*********************  
**FATHER DICK’S POV**  
_someone like you_  
  
Your alarm was set for five fifteen that morning, and it was no surprise to you that Jon didn’t sleep that long either, and you were standing in Daniel’s dark foyer with a cup of coffee in your hand, peeking out of the curtains framing the front door, when you heard Jon walking above you…down the hall to the bathroom…out of the bathroom….down the hall to Daniel’s room…and then his fast feet to the top of the stairs. You were waiting for him at the bottom; you both had your hands on a light switch--the same light, opposite ends of the stairwell.  
  
“Don’t,” you said.  
  
“Where the hell is he?”  
  
“Out front.”  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
You took a sip of your coffee and surveyed Jon’s naked, concerned form before you answered, “On the surface, I suppose he’s talking to himself.”  
  
Jon threw his hands up in the air like you were of no use to him and disappeared into the studio (for a split second he reminded you of Amelia...), re-emerging seconds later with the clothes he had on the night before. You were still standing at the foot of the stairs when he came flying down.  
  
“Good morning,” you said when he got to the bottom.  
  
“Move, please.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Richard, I don’t have time for this.”  
  
“You’re not going out there.”  
  
He looked in your eyes, examining you closely, and then sat down on the stairs defeated. “Why are you still pissed at me?” he asked you, his head hanging down.  
  
You didn’t fall for it and sit down next to him because you knew he’d leapfrog right over you and fly out the front door. Instead, you bumped his knee with yours so he’d look up, “This isn’t about you and me; this is about him.”  
  
“That’s why I’m trying to go outside, Richard.”  
  
“Well, by the power bestowed upon me by the Catholic Church and Jesus, I’m over-ruling you.”  
  
“He needs help.”  
  
“He needs _a friend._ ”  
  
“I am his friend.”  
  
“No, right now you’re Super-Shrink, and if you go out there, all he’s going to do is feel even worse. You’re going to go out the back way--quietly, get in a cab, get our suits and come back here. I’ll keep an eye on him.”  
  
Jon’s eyes fixed on you in that way they always do when he knows you’re right, and he can’t stand it. You didn't know Jon well enough then, but you were just about the only person he'd ever speak the following words to: “Okay, fine. You win."  
  
He sprinted back upstairs to get his wallet, pager, and keys and then came back down to say good-bye. You were once again standing at the sliver of a window by the front door peering out. "I'm going," he said.  
  
"Okay."  
  
He tugged on your arm, and you turned your head. "How's your ass this morning?" he asked you.  
  
"Get out of here, please."  
  
"Throw the sheets in the washer; I stripped the bed."  
  
"Does the word 'please' exist in your vocabulary when your dick isn't hard?" you asked him.  
  
He didn't even think about his answer, "Nope."  
  
*********************  
_ordinary people_  
  
You watched Daniel from the window beside the front door until you suddenly lost sight of him. You left your coffee mug in his kitchen sink and opened his front door. He was almost all the way in the bushes, his wet face littered with dirt; you knelt down beside him. He jumped when you touched him, “Dan, it’s just me. Let me help you, okay?”  
  
You could tell that he wanted to resist you, but his body was exhausted, and so he let you help him sit up. “Where are your glasses?” you asked him. You knew he’d been wearing them; he shook his head like he didn’t know. You glanced at the dirt he’d been lying in and saw them, picked them up, shook the dirt off of them, and then set them on the steps. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Take a shower, get you cleaned up.”  
  
He shook his head, “I already took one."  
  
You sat down on the sidewalk, facing him, your hand propped on his shoulder, “Everything feels kind of pointless right now, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We’re just gonna take it one minute at a time, okay?”  
  
He looked up at you, trying to ascertain if you were really serious, and then said, "I think I drank a whole bottle of brandy last night."  
  
You laughed as you tried to brush some of the dirt off of his clothes, "Oh god, no, you didn't. I helped you with that."  
  
"You did?" he asked, the first hope you'd seen on his face since this nightmare had started.  
  
"Oh yeah; I helped you a lot."  
  
He reached up and put his hand on your arm, hanging on it for support, "Thank you so much for doing that."  
  
"Anytime."  
  
“Where’s Jon?”  
  
“Getting our clothes. He won’t be back for a while.”  
  
"Richard?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Did I die and go to heaven?"  
  
"Only for the next two hours or so," you said as he got to his feet.  
  
"I'm just on a little vacation then," he mumbled as you got him through the front door and helped him up the stairs.  
  
……  
  
You called Jon while Daniel was in the shower and told him to dress at his place and, “Take as long as you want.”  
  
“ _Is he all right?_ ” Jon asked you.  
  
“Honestly, I think he's in shock...some kind of delayed shock."  
  
_"Do you want me to come back?"_  
  
"No, I’m going to make breakfast and see if he’ll open up a little.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Jon was so quiet, you thought he’d hung up, “You still there?”  
  
“ _Yeah, I’m here. I’m just…. Thanks for doing this. I just... I really appreciate it._ ”  
  
“You don’t need to thank me; I care about him, too."  
  
“ _I know you do._ "  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Silence hung between you, snagged somewhere in space.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
"Jon?"  
  
_"What?"_  
  
"Maybe you could call Harper? See how she is...after last night and all..."  
  
_"Sure. That'll help...  
  
"Give you some more time, too."_  
  
"Yeah... Okay... Well, I think he's out of the shower. I'll see you in a couple hours."  
  
_"Okay... But Richard?  
  
"Wait."_  
  
"What?"  
  
_"I meant to tell you; his eggs, it's just, he's really picky. He only likes them--"_  
  
"Over easy, I know."  
  
……  
  
……  
  
" _I'll check on Harper after I get dressed._ "  
  
……  
  
"Maybe Justin and Brian, too?" you suggested.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
_"Yeah.... I could do that; that's not a bad idea.  
  
"I'll just get dressed and start making rounds...probably the best thing. But Richard--"_  
  
"I know. If I need you, call you."  
  
" _Please."_  
  
"Well, whadd'ya know? You do know that word after all."  
  
*********************

 

 

  
  
  
No lyrics or icons this time; all POV subheadings were titles of movies, television shows, or plays. Most images were found on [AllPosters.com](http://www.allposters.com/) and are as follows: _Knives, c. 1981-1982 (Three Black on Cream)_ by Andy Warhol, _1 0r 2 forks_ by Lori McAllister, stock photo of cutlery in bin, stock photo of swiss army knife, _Knife and Fork_ by Christian Choisy, Close-up of Forks art print, _Partially Unfocused Image of Four Worn Forks_ by John T. Wong, _Knife Fork and Spoon_ by Allayn Stevens, _Intemperie_ by Jean-Francois-Dupuis, _Middle Finger_ by [Matthew Bartik](http://fork-art.com/other.html) (this guy's work is unbelievable and hilarious; go look!), _Fork_ by Pep Ventora, French army knife, a little pink ditch digger, stock photo of ice pick, stock photo of cutlery, a literal fork in the road, _Spoon and Fork_ by Carlos Clarke, _Steaming Chili Pepper on fork_ by Howard Sokol, _Surgical Instruments_ by French School, and tuning forks.


	44. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 41-Unearthed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 9/30/07]

**BEYOND THE** **YELLOW BRICK ROAD** **-CHAPTER 41-UNEARTHED  
  
BRIAN'S POV  
**_reach out and touch someone_  
  
At a little after three in the morning, you awoke to find yourself alone in bed. Your eyes scanned the room, remembering first where you were and then why you were there, and then they landed on Justin's nude form in a chair by the window, his feet propped on a chair in front of him, his cigarette dangling from his hand and pointing toward the floor, the orange dot vibrating in the darkness, his hand shaking.  
  
You shifted on the mattress to see if he'd turn his head and see you, but he didn't, so you lay there--still and silent--and watched him for a while.  
  
There was nothing on the table in front of him but an empty glass he was using an ashtray and his wedding ring--the tip of his left index finger was inside it, moving it along the top of the table--away from him and then back--repeatedly. You watched as he brought the cigarette up to the lip of the glass and tapped it and then let his arm extend again; he wasn't smoking it; it was merely a prop. Eventually, his left hand abandoned his ring on the table and moved to his face, and then you saw the shimmer of moisture on his face before he made it disappear.  
  
You started to get up...  
  
but stopped yourself.  
  
......  
  
......  
  
Seven minutes ticked by.  
  
......  
  
......  
  
And then his legs bent, aiming his feet for the floor; his cigarette died in the glass; his wedding ring slid back on his finger, and you closed your eyes when he stood, kept them closed as you felt his weight on your bed, opened them only when you felt him touching you, gently trying to move your arm.  
  
You obliged him, 'waking up,' "What's the matter?"  
  
"Nothing," he said, pushing up on your arm with more force that time.  
  
You raised your arm so he could slide underneath it and asked, "You okay?"  
  
"No."  
  
You tucked your hand underneath him, let it run up and down his back, "Tell me."  
  
He offered no response.  
  
.....  
  
.....  
  
.....  
  
"Justin."  
  
"I can't.... I just need you right now, okay?"  
  
......  
  
......  
  
Minutes passed and perhaps he felt the impulse rising inside you, perhaps he knew you were about to say something because he essentially pre-empted you, pressing his hand against your chest like he was holding you back or something, and then he whispered, _"I'm sorry."_  
  
"For what?"  
  
"I don't know, for everything, I guess."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for," you told him. "Not one fucking thing."  
  
"Then why do I feel so horrible?"  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_can you hear me now?_  
  
You'd argued with Emma from the very beginning, "Emma, no healthy nine-year-old boy spends his free time reading the encyclopedia."  
  
"He's extremely intelligent," she immediately countered, "He takes after me."  
  
"He takes after you, all right; he's wired way too tight."  
  
She wouldn't fuck you for three weeks after that particular argument, so you took it upon yourself to re-orient your only child to the world. It would've been easier to climb Mt. Everest with one leg...blindfolded.  
  
......  
  
Daniel was a beautiful baby boy, ' _Gerber_ baby beautiful' everyone said; he rarely cried, and if he did, all you had to do was include him in the conversation, and he settled right down. By age two, he had every one of Emma's mannerisms completely down pat, so you fought her tooth and nail to put him in some kind of mother's morning out just to get him around other people.  
  
He hated it.  
  
Emma somehow 'forgot' how to perform fellatio after that, so you'd 'forget' to come home from work on time for dinner, and the dance of passive aggressive marital neglect went on for years until you came home late on particular Wednesday evening when Daniel was seven, and he met you at the door instead of Emma...  
  
He took your coat just like she always did; his shirt still tucked into his little khaki pants, "You're late."  
  
"I know...I'm sorry."  
  
"Your dinner's in the refrigerator," he informed you, "Microwave it covered for five minutes on fifty percent power, uncover it, stir the mashed potatoes, recover and heat on full power for one and half minutes. Mom thinks the milk is sour, drink water."  
  
"Um...okay. Thanks."  
  
"Did you have a good day?" he asked you and you knew that just like Emma, he didn't give a shit.  
  
You gave him your standard answer, "Pretty much. How was school?"  
  
"Boring as usual. I finished all my class work before every one else, so I got to go help the first graders again." The argument of when you were going to make enough money to put Daniel in private school was a monthly event with you and Emma; it was only a matter of time.  
  
"With math or writing?" you asked him as you put your briefcase down, still trapped in the foyer.  
  
"Just the alphabet; they're still pretty dumb."  
  
"It's the first month of school, Daniel. Cut them a little slack," you said, reclaiming your coat so you could hang it in the closet.  
  
"I'm going to work on my project. Have a nice night."  
  
"Okay, thanks. You, too."  
  
And you watched your son walk down the hall, go into his bedroom and shut the door. You had dinner by yourself in the kitchen; Emma never even appeared. At precisely eight fifteen, Daniel opened his bedroom door, walked down the hall to the bathroom, started his bath, closing the bathroom door behind him. He emerged exactly twenty-five minutes later in his pajamas, walked up to you in the living room where you were watching TV, and said, "Good night, Dad."  
  
"How's your project going?" you asked him.  
  
"I need some more magazines."  
  
"I brought you all the ones I had from the waiting rooms."  
  
"I still need some more."  
  
He had three shoe boxes full of pictures he'd been cutting out--every picture--that had absolutely no writing on it whatsoever--out of every magazine he could get his hand on. 'He needed them,' he told you. 'For what?' you'd ask. He didn't know.  
  
"Want to stay up and watch a little TV with me?" you asked him, suddenly feeling all alone.  
  
"No, it's time for me to go to bed."  
  
"No magazines in bed, no scissors, no cutting."  
  
"I know that."  
  
You pulled him close and kissed him goodnight, "Good night, son," before he suffered through it and pulled away.  
  
"Good night." He got halfway down the hall and turned around, "Dad, did you put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Just checking."  
  
"The milk's not sour; I tasted it."  
  
"I know that, Dad."  
  
"Sleep tight, Danny boy."  
  
"Don't call me that; that's completely nonsensical," he scolded you.  
  
"Did the first graders teach you that word?"  
  
"No, Mom did."  
  
Of course she did.  
  
*********************  
_the right way to invest  
  
_ You redoubled your efforts after that night; if your relationship with Emma was going down the drain, you weren't going to let your relationship with your son go with it, so despite his constant protestations, you became an intrusive presence in Daniel's life, coming home from work on time or even early, pulling him out of his room and his own little world, taking him anywhere and everywhere--museums and the zoo because he wanted to go, baseball games because you wanted to go, hiking, biking, bowling, fishing--not that you were particularly talented at any of those things, anything you could think of and never the same thing over and over, determined to break his habit of forming habits.  
  
At first, it was overwhelming to him; every experience had to come with brochures and programs and anything with pictures that he could keep and cut out and stow away under his bed, but after several months of his incredibly inefficient leisure time, he needed fewer and fewer pictures and less time to organize and then he didn't have to cut them out; he might just stash the brochure under the bed and not even in a protective sleeve!  
  
Progress felt like a drug in your veins. (Sometimes after that, Emma didn't stop you when you touched her; it was her way of thanking you for doing what she could've never done--rescued her only son from becoming her clone.)  
  
Daniel was smiling, developing his own point of view, and sometimes even getting in trouble at school for _not_ paying attention. The day he forgot about a homework assignment was the proudest day of your life; you took him out for ice cream for ostensibly no reason and teased him about being a slacker.  
  
"Yeah, really, me, a slacker, Dad."  
  
"Maybe that's what you should be for Halloween," you suggested to him; he was thirteen at the time.  
  
He looked at you with a very quizzical, yet thoughtful, expression on his face, "How do you dress like a slacker?"  
  
"You don't; that's the point."  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's the funniest joke you've ever made."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"I know so."  
  
"Nah, it's just the funniest one you've _heard_ me make."  
  
......  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"Then you must make them at work, Dad, because Mom doesn't have a funny bone in her body."  
  
"Danny boy?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Have I ever told you that you're a genius?"  
  
"You don't have to tell me," he informed you, "It's well-documented."  
  
*********************  
_have you met life today?_  
  
That January, during his first year in private school, Daniel made the debate team. He didn't show up for his first debate because you weren't there.  
  
Your absence was unavoidable.  
  
The debate was to begin at seven p.m; you died--suddenly and alone in your office- after a crappy lunch in the hospital's cafeteria from undiagnosed hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.  
  
It was one twenty-three in the afternoon; Daniel would've been sitting in fourth period no doubt staring at the clock and his constantly calibrated _Timex_ to see if the bell was going to ring on time that day.  
  
His didn't, but yours did. You were thirty-four.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN'S POV  
**_right here, right now **  
  
**_ Brian was obliging you, but it wasn't helping at all. After ruling out going back to sleep, you figured you ultimately had two choices:  
  
fuck or talk.  
  
And when he felt you move, felt you touching him, his hands awakened on your body, one of them moving up your back and threading through your hair, tightening the knot your bodies had made. _"What?"_ he whispered.  
  
"I don't think I can go to the funeral," you said.  
  
He tried to pull back, to look at you, but you wouldn't let him, so he stopped trying, asking, "Why?"  
  
"I don't know," you said, your face pressed against his chest as you listened to his heartbeat.  
  
He offered the standard platitudes about closure and your friends and blah, blah, blah, and what about Alan--  
  
"That's why I can't go, I think; I can't feel Alan in any of this. It's so fucked up, but this funeral, I feel like it has nothing to do with him."  
  
You'd accidentally kicked the door open, so Brian stuck his foot in it, "Then what _does_ it have to do with?"  
  
......  
  
Experiencing all of this, talking about it all tied up with Brian was different than lying next to him on the floor; he felt your response before you offered it, reacted to it before you'd even decided if you were going to answer his question, "It's okay, Justin. Whatever it is, it's okay."  
  
But still, there was a reluctance inside you that initially baffled even you, but you forced yourself to yank off the emotional band-aid unaware at that moment of how deep--much less how neglected--the wound was underneath...  
  
"Something inside of me is dying," you admitted, letting it go and not even wanting to claim it once it was outside of you.  
  
"Okay."  
  
It had oozed out and settled between you, as comfortable in the sheets as your bodies were; the unspoken, infected member of your unplanned threesome.  
  
......  
  
And the infection was not without consequences; it was making you sick; Brian was driving you crazy with his newfound 'okayness' with everything. Why the hell after eleven years was he suddenly okay with everything? "Don't you want to know _what_?" you asked him, meaning this dying thing inside you, meaning this dying thing that was outside of you now festering between you.  
  
"I want to know what you want me to know," he said.  
  
You stopped, untying the knot a bit and looked at him, at the expression on his face and realized that he was serious, that that was all he wanted.  
  
So you told him what you wanted him to know, and saying it...well, it felt like you were sort of peeling off your skin right in front of him, but as you spoke, you felt the infection slowly soaking into the mattress, leaving you; your pores tightening, refusing to let it back in.  
  
"This is really hard for me to say, hard to explain," you began, "But I want you to know...  
  
"And I guess I've been afraid to tell you anything for so long that it just became this enormous thing...  
  
"I want you to know that a part of me is dying; I mean, I don't know what else to call it, and that if I walk in that church...in that fucking funeral...with you, or for that matter, even without you,...that part of me..." your voice trailed off.  
  
"Part of you what?" he asked  
  
.......  
  
"Part of me is not coming...back out."  
  
Brian rested his face on the top of your head, "Okay," trying to hold you tighter so you wouldn't shake so badly. It wasn't until he made the gesture... only then did you become aware of the exorcism taking place inside you. Whatever was inside of you; the rest of it was coming out--no matter what. It had found an unlikely escape route--through Brian--who'd suddenly become more like a sponge and less like a battering ram. You held on tighter.  
  
"There's a part of me, I somehow realized, that wants to move on from that night, Brian…  
  
"...and that part of me...loves you so much that I didn't even know it existed."  
  
"I know," he said quietly, "It's all right"  
  
"It really...doesn't...feel...all right...at...all," you said.  
  
"Just be quiet for a minute," he said, "There's no rush."  
  
.....  
  
......  
  
.....  
  
By the time you were ready to start again, his chest was so wet, he looked like he'd been on the treadmill for over an hour...  
  
He kissed the side of your face, and eventually your teeth stopped banging against each other, so you tried to start again...  
  
"After it happened, after I got hurt, it was like we took every step together, you know? We shared the pain of all of this." He was touching you, soothing you; it made it easier, "I mean that literally, Brian, I couldn't _walk_ across...the...fucking...street...  
  
"...and I feel like if I go in there, in that church, I'm going to be a different man when I come out, and I don't want to do that to...you...  
  
"...I mean...I don't even...know...if I _can_."  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"You _have_ to," Brian finally said.  
  
And that broke the ever-loving hell out of the proverbial dam.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_you've come a long way, baby_  
  
You ended up wrapping him in a cum-stained sheet and propping him up against the headboard with a box of tissues in his lap and a double shot of whiskey in the hand that wasn't shaking. You offered him a cigarette before you lay down in front of him, your head propped on your hand, but he refused, afraid that he might set the bed on fire. "I don't think you're going to cry at the funeral," you said to him, "I don't think there are any tears left in your body after the last few days."  
  
"No shit. I pro-ba-bly won't piss for a week." His was practically stuttering.  
  
"I want you to listen to me for a few minutes, try to calm down, okay?" His entire body was heaving with every breath.  
  
"O-kay," he agreed.  
  
......  
  
Seeing him in that much pain; it felt like a knife turning and turning inside your heart. But everything made sense to you at that point; you knew the years of separation were somehow necessary and inevitable, you just couldn't articulate exactly why, but _this_ was why. You rested your free hand on his knee, "Look, it's okay for you to go into that church as one man and come out another; you're a different man, Justin. You're not some fossilized moth trapped in amber, okay? You're growing up." He reached down and held your hand where it was propped on his leg, held it because he wanted you to hold his, and you did; your hands switched places; he wanted you to ground him, to stop what was happening inside him, or at least, to make it more bearable. "I mean, you basically have two choices when you're close to thirty; either become a raging, arrogant asshole or begin to deal with the skeletons in your closet. I wouldn't recommend option one; it basically takes twice as long to accomplish the same thing." He leaned back against the headboard, stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. You felt--once again--like you were back in his studio with him the night he stole his painting back, only this time he was actually coming clean or trying to, at least. "Is this why you went completely postal on me when you saw that mural in my office?" you asked him.  
  
"I don't...know...what...you mean."  
  
"I was fucking with your timetable?"  
  
"I guess so," he said. "I mean, sort of. I guess.... It's just.... I don't …. It’s really complicated, Brian.”  
  
"There’s nothing wrong with complicated, Justin." He sighed in disbelief at your response. "What?” you asked.  
  
"You just don’t understand."  
  
"Well, make me understand."  
  
He looked at you then after a few moments had passed, “I’m going to hurt you if I do that; I think."  
  
"As long as you’re telling me the truth, you’re not going to hurt me," you told him.  
  
He got up out of bed, went over to the table by the window, picked up your laptop and got back into bed; you watched his face as he turned it on, the blue light cooling his features, maturing him in a way the blue light in your bedroom never seemed to. He started surfing the web, and then he spoke without even looking at you,  
  
“You know, what you just said to me? That’s the only time you’ve ever lied to me.”  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_you'll never roam alone_  
  
The last thing you 'remember' from the day you died was your secretary running into your office, screaming because there was blood running down your face. When you'd fallen, when your heart decided it was done for good, your knees buckled and you hit your head on the corner of your desk. "Somebody get a doctor!" she yelled.  
  
......  
  
The next thing you knew you were back in your office but all alone, and you'd been there ever since, no more pain in your chest or your head, but it was still bleeding, still dripping into the palm of your hand; time must've passed, you presumed, but there was no way to know. Your thoughts ran in chronological order from the beginning of your life to the moment it 'ended,' and then started over time after time after time...  
  
Until you looked up because you saw something beyond the door of your office, something that had never been there before; your secretary's office was back preceding the entrance to yours and you could see through it to a hallway--something else you remembered. The temperature in the room began to rise; you hadn't even noticed the temperature before; it was never hot or cold in that place, but now it was warming steadily, the sun was in a different place in the sky--sky, of all things!--because there was an actual view out your window but not one you recognized, and then you began to sweat, the humidity uncomfortable. You got up and walked to the window trying to ascertain where you were and when you couldn't and turned around to go back to your desk, you were no longer alone; there was a little girl sitting in your desk chair. She had huge, bright brown eyes, light brown curly hair, and short little legs that stuck out of the bottom of her dress, her white-laced bobby socks inside her little black shoes. She was holding a pair of white wings in her lap.  
  
"You stopped bweeding," she said. You looked down at your hand, and it was clean; wiped your forehead and there was nothing on your hand. "I grow-ded too big, and my wings felled off," she told you, holding them up for your perusal.  
  
"I see that."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Where'd you come from?" you asked her.  
  
"I dunno," she shrugged.  
  
"Where's your mommy? She must be very worried about you."  
  
"Yeah, she's on Earf," she said with a huge sigh.  
  
You walked closer to her, and she leaned forward in her chair imitating your interest in her as you asked, "What's your name?"  
  
"'PeanutbutIdonlikeit," she said.  
  
"Did you say 'Peanut?'" you asked her.  
  
"I was bery, bery small," she said, "But I growed now. I not a peanut anymore."  
  
"What's your real name?" you asked her stepping back because she was growing right in front of your face, her hair was anyway. It had grown half an inch just during your conversation.  
  
She tossed her wings on the floor, jumped out of your chair, and began some very ecstatic footwork, "Maddie, Baddy, Bo, Baddy, Fee, Fi, Mo, Maddie, Maddie!"  
  
You laughed at her little production, "Your name is Maddie then?"  
  
Your question was answered by a deep voice from the doorway, "Her name is Made _line_." Your heart that had been dormant for quite some time thumped like a gigantic jack rabbit's tail in your chest. There was a large black woman standing in your doorway in an old nurse's uniform, complete with one of those ridiculous hats, and she was not happy. Madeline saw her and ran and hid under your desk.  
  
"I see you, Peanut," the intruder said.  
  
"Nuh uh," the little girl said, "I'm inbisible."  
  
"No, you aren't, Peanut."  
  
"DON'T CALL ME 'PEANUT!'"  
  
You stood in front of your desk, fencing Madeline in, feeling protective of this strange little creature all of a sudden as you questioned the intruder in your doorway, "Who are you?"  
  
"First, I need to know who you are," she said.  
  
"Dan Cartwright," you admitted as if you'd been caught robbing a bank. Honest to god, your hands went up.  
  
"Oh, for the love of god," the woman said as she walked into your office and plopped down on your sofa, "This is one post-mortem cosmic cluster fuck."  
  
"YOU SAID A BAD WORD, TATE!" Madeline screamed from under your desk.  
  
"Pipe down, Peanut!"  
  
"DON'T CALL ME 'PEANUT!'"  
  
"What'd you do? Shoot yourself in the head?" the woman asked you.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Your Emma's son, aren't you? You got a big wound in your head, and you're up here."  
  
"You know Emma?"  
  
"Yeah, unfortunately."  
  
"EMMA, EMMA, BO, BEMMA, FEE, FI, MO, MEMMA, EMMA!" The black woman kicked your desk and said, "Hush!"  
  
"I'm her husband," you said, "Her late husband, not her son."  
  
The woman looked at you with a critical eye, scanned your entire body, the room, got up and looked out the window, and then walked over to your desk and nudged you out of the way, "Get out here, Madeline."  
  
Madeline emerged from under your desk with a huge smile on her face and even longer hair. She'd taken her shoes off and she handed them to her babysitter, "Too tight." You looked down and there were already new ones on her feet, same style, less shine.  
  
"My name's Tate," the woman said to you as she walked over to the window and through the shoes out.  
  
"Nice to meet you," you said.  
  
And then Tate turned her attention to the little girl she'd been warring with the entire time, her demeanor suddenly different, "This one's yours, Madeline."  
  
"Yeah," the little girl said climbing into your desk chair and then onto your desk chair, standing so she could be almost eye level with you, "I already knowed that."  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_maybe she's born with it_  
  
Sam was thrilled to see you outside his door that morning as was Amelia, both for different reasons. "You're 'upposed to ring the doorbell, Dr. Jon," Amelia admonished you first.  
  
"You don't have a doorbell," you reminded her, "I had to knock."  
  
"You're 'upposed to _betend_ ," she insisted.  
  
"Oh sorry; _ding dong_."  
  
Your participation thrilled her, sending a wave of joy through her entire body before she got serious again, "Yeah, you can come in, Dr. Jon 'cause you're not strange."  
  
"He's not a strang _-er_ ," Sam corrected her.  
  
"I'm the strang _-est,_ " you told her, being very sure Harper was out of earshot before you did.  
  
"You have perfect timing," Sam said, and then he leaned forward and whispered the rest into your ear, _"We were having a WWF throw down about wearing her new dress during breakfast."  
_  
"I thought you'd stopped cross-dressing," you told him, sitting down at the table with them.  
  
"Not bad for this hour of the morning,” Sam shot back.  
  
"Not bad, Dr. Jon,” Amelia said, "'Cause it's the hour morning...'cause...I knowed that." You watched as Amelia climbed into her booster chair and yelled at her father as he took Cheerios out of the cupboard, "No, Apple Jacks, Daddy!"  
  
"We don't have any Apple Jacks."  
  
"Lucky Charms! Pinkheartslellomoonsbwuediamonds!”  
  
"We don't have those either."  
  
"Honeybunchesofoats?"  
  
"Not enough left."  
  
"Mix it wif the Cheerios please."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Sam brought two boxes of cereal to the table and as he was closing the cabinet, you saw a box of Lucky Charms way in the back. He sat the boxes on the table along with the milk. Amelia was already armed with her bowl and spoon. What transpired next belonged on the other side of a two-way mirror...  
  
You watched as Sam opened both boxes of cereal and asked Amelia, "Who's going first?"  
  
"Hmmm..." she said.  
  
"One, two,...three," he counted to spur her along.  
  
"Honeybunchesofoats!"  
  
"Okay." He opened the box, tipped it toward her bowl, and as the cereal started to fall, he began, "No, no, please, not me; I don't want to be in the bottom of the bowl, nooooooooo..."  
  
Amelia cracked up. "Too bad Honeybunchesofoats; I hafta eat you in a minute." When the box was empty, Amelia stuck her face in the bowl, "Stop that crying, Honeybunchesofoats!"  
  
"Time for Cheerios," Sam said.  
  
"Yay!" Amelia said, and then she began to cheer, "Herewego, Cheewios, herewego," and clapped her hands twice, and on the second clap, Sam tapped the box and some cereal fell in the bowl. "Do it, Dr. Jon," she ordered you, "Herewego, Cheewios, herewego," and then you clapped your hands twice and more cereal fell into the bowl. Amelia cackled like an evil witch. "Do it again," she demanded, "Herewego, Cheewios, herewego," and you clapped again and the bowl filled up. Amelia pounded her feet on her chair and threw both arms up in the air and said, "Touchdown, Cheewios!"  
  
Sam got up immediately, so fast it freaked you out, put the boxes on the counter, and sat back down with a banana, a knife. Amelia's eyes were as big as quarters, watching him with such extreme anticipation it was starting to make you nervous. As soon as he peeled the banana, he picked up the knife, pulled her bowl a little closer to him and stopped moving--hands, knife, and banana hovering over the bowl and then he started to sing, "Few times been around that track--"  
  
And Amelia squealed in delight, "Ainnohollabackgirl, ainnohollabackgirl.”  
  
"What do you want in your cereal?"  
  
"I-want-some-bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S," Amelia chanted, and Sam started slicing the banana.  
  
"You want what?" he said.  
  
"Bananas! B-A-N-AN-A-S!" She said, stomping and clapping along.  
  
"And how do you spell bananas?"  
  
"B-A-N-A-N-A-S!"  
  
"That's my girl," he said when the banana was sliced, and then he picked up the milk, sliding her bowl back in front of her. Amelia sat all the way up and then peered down into her bowl again, "Who's ready to go fwimming?"  
  
"Not me," said Sam in a ridiculously high voice.  
  
"Who said that?" Amelia demanded.  
  
"Me," Sam said, "I'm just a little banana. I don't know how to swim."  
  
Amelia searched the bowl for the smallest slice of banana she could find and when she picked it up, Sam said in the same goofy voice, "Oh thank you, you saved me."  
  
"No, I'm gonna eat you," Amelia said, and then she did. Sam poured milk on her cereal as she chewed as swallowed, and then said in his Baby Banana voice, "I'm just a little banana. B-A-N-A-N-A."  
  
Amelia patted her stomach and said, "Be quiet banana; I already knowed that 'cause I already ate-d you."  
  
And then Sam turned to you with a completely straight face, "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"  
  
"Uh, sure."  
  
"You take it black, right?" he asked as he sat the mug in front of you.  
  
"Yeah, you take yours with LSD, correct?"  
  
Sam shook his head, "Nah, I gave it up for Lent."  
  
......  
  
Harper walked into the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the linoleum as you took your first sip, " _Now_ will you commit him, Jonathon?"  
  
"I'm seriously reconsidering it."  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_your world. delivered._  
  
Justin insisted that you sit up, so you leaned back against the headboard and he sat between your legs, leaning back against you, your laptop balanced on his knees, your hands anchoring it from either side. “What’re you doing?” you asked him.  
  
“Showing you the truth.”  
  
You watched over his shoulder as he surfed through a gallery’s website until he found an article about a show he’d been in, and then his cursor hovered over a link he wasn’t ready to click. “I just want you to promise me,” he said, “That when I click this, you won’t shut me out; that we’ll keep talking okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
"You asked me the other night about Alan’s painting in the tunnel, about what I thought it meant, and I wouldn’t answer you, remember?”  
  
“Only too well; I think all of New York knows it now.”  
  
“Well, I thought by not talking to you about it that I was somehow protecting you from it; obviously, I was wrong.”  
  
“Just show me.”  
  
“This is what Alan was recreating in the tunnels, albeit in his own way,” he said, and then he clicked the link and you no longer had to wonder about the source of Alan’s inspiration…  
  
......  
  
......  


 

  
  
......  
  
......  
  
You stared at it--at yourself, at him, at the circumstances--for several minutes, hardly registering that Justin had released your laptop, that you were the only one holding it, that he’d turned away from it, that he’d practically curled himself into a ball inside the cage your body had made around him, wrapped his arms around you…and he wasn’t trying to comfort you or waiting for you to comfort him; he was waiting for you to finally understand that he was half of this fucking mess and you were the other. That since the moment he woke up in the hospital, he'd been trying to bang this into your hard head, that'd he'd never seen the two of you as two separate people; you were as one to him, and when half of you was broken and sick, the other half didn’t stand a chance.  
  
Indeed, as you rose from the ground in his painting, there was--initially--no physical distinction between the two of you. And upon further inspection, you realized that Justin had captured the essence of regret in your life in his painting because while you’d spent ten years loving him in your own oh-so-noble way, he was more tethered to a tombstone than to you. And had you viewed that painting before that week, you would’ve taken it personally, been offended that Justin’s brush portrayed you so harshly and overbearing, so deeply chiseled with the scars of life, but that night you saw something completely different—  
  
He was shielding you.  
  
He was there in more detail, in more color; he was the man, the soul, closer to the tombstone, the only one whose feet were touching the ground despite what it was costing him.  
  
You’d spent a decade amassing millions while Justin was spending everything he had on you.  
  
.....  
  
Several minutes had passed, and your laptop went on standby, coating the room in darkness.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_the human element_  
  
Brian was dead quiet in the darkness, and you remember that the only sounds for several minutes were his hands on your skin and his feet moving around in the sheets as he got comfortable. He pulled the sheet up over you, keeping one hand underneath it, and you lay there against him, more and more convinced that you’d done the wrong thing as the minutes ticked by. And his breathing was weird after awhile and out of some kind of intuition or something, you slid your hand up his chest to his face, and he grabbed it, and you thought he was going to push it away, but he didn’t; he laid his face in it, and you scrambled to get up because he never reached out for you like that. "I’m sorry,” you said, straddling him so you could hold him, so his emotions could bleed out on your shoulder, “I’m so, so sorry.”  
  
At least I understand it now,” he said  
  
"Understand what?”  
  
Why you went the fuck off on me. Why you didn’t want me to buy your paintings.”  
  
"It’s not that, Brian; it’s just…. I don’t know; it’s not really about the painting, Brian; it’s about us.”  
  
"About us," he repeated as if it was a death sentence......  
  
Brian's anger had always been a frightening thing to deal with, but this, his agony...  
  
It terrified you.  
  
Brian Kinney is a powerful man--for better or for worse.....  
  
The secrets that Michael had told you, the stories about Brian coming over drunk and disorderly and falling into bed with him and crying himself to sleep, this wasn't the same thing because he wasn't drunk; he would remember this; this was for real; it wasn't something that everyone at the diner would talk about and then pretend to forget when he walked in the next day looking like shit. And liquor didn't cause this, and his dad or his job didn't cause this, you did, and suddenly you felt very, very young and very, very incompetent. And it wasn't like you could say, 'I'll be right back,' and throw some clothes on and run for your life over to Debbie's and get her to come over and help him because, Jesus Christ, you were married to him now. And you thought and thought and thought and the only thing you could think of was,  
  
"Do you want some whiskey?"  
  
He laughed in your arms, "No...but thank you."  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not right now," he said.  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"Do you still love me?" you asked him.  
  
"Justin."  
  
"What?"  
  
"One of these days someone will come up a new and improved kind of love, one that will work a lot quicker and last a lot longer and be a lot cheaper and come in a brighter box, and you know what?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'll still love you the old way."  
  
You squeezed him really tight. "Will it come with one of those little test strips that you can pee on and it will automatically tell you if you're in love?"  
  
"The starter kit comes with a dozen."  
  
"That's a lot."  
  
"It is," he said, "Because the old-timey kit that I had, it only came with one."  
  
......  
  
After you were done kissing him, you asked him, "What color did it turn when you peed on it?"  
  
He smiled at you, "Blond."  
  
*********************  
_and I don't know  
is this the part where you let go? _  
  
But nothing in life is ever that simple, no mountain is ever climbed without a lot of practice and pain...  
  
You wanted to get out of that misery-infested bed, so you climbed out of his lap and out of bed, extending your hand to him, "Come on. Shower." And he got up and followed you and in the very dim dome light of your luxury shower at The Regency, you leaned against him as he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and ran your soapy hand over his entire body while his hand rested snugly on your shoulder. He rinsed off, washed his hair, and then leaned back again, waiting patiently as you cleaned up, and when you'd finished and rinsed off--even though his eyes were closed, he knew when you were done--he extended his arms, and you walked into them, overcome with sadness--albeit fresh and clean sadness--when they closed around you.  
  
.....  
  
Brian was so quiet that when he finally spoke, it startled you, "You don't have any faith in me."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Jon said that I have to stand on my own two feet about this stuff, not burden you with my bullshit, but then I see that painting, and, hell, you didn't even _give_ me any feet."  
  
"That's not true, Brian."  
  
"Don't lie to me."  
  
"Okay, fine; you're right. I don't have any faith in you," you retorted, arguing with him was pointless.  
  
He turned off the water, opened the shower door, and snapped a towel off the heated bar.  
  
......  
  
You dried off in silence, the two of you, and then he walked out of the bathroom, out of your bedroom, through the living room and kept going, and when you saw his hand wrapping around the doorknob of the untouched spare bedroom in your suite you asked, "What the fuck? You want to sleep by yourself or something?"  
  
"It's darker in here, the curtains are heavier; the sun won't wake us up," he said.  
  
"Oh." And you followed him, watching as he pulled the bedspread back in the dark room, revealing the pristine white sheets beneath it. He lay down on them and you sat down next to him. You felt his hand low on your back.  
  
"Lie down," he said, a quiet order.  
  
You turned and looked over your shoulder at his face, and he raised his eyebrows at you like get on with it or something, so you acquiesced and laid down, your head resting on his chest. "I told you this was going to hurt you, Brian."  
  
"You did."  
  
"And I was right."  
  
"You were."  
  
"I'm not trying to hurt you; it's not fair; it's--"  
  
"Why you stay away; I know."  
  
" _No_ , it's how I express myself, Brian. You fucked half the free world working out your demons, and I had to deal with that."  
  
He smiled; you could feel it. "At least you try to get as far away from me as possible while you work your shit out."  
  
"See, I'm considerate. I don't rub it in your fucking face."  
  
"You are."  
  
"You should be thanking me," you pointed out.  
  
"I am."  
  
......  
  
"You are?"  
  
"For the gesture, yes."  
  
"It's not that I don't have faith in you; it's that I love you, Brian. No offense, but I'm not like you; I can't hurt someone on purpose--just because it's better for them five years from now."  
  
"You think you can't, but you can. You just can't do it in person."  
  
You raised your head up and put your hand on his chin, "Fuck you, and that is bullshit."  
  
He pushed your fingers back down on your chest, "You did the right thing, Justin. Sometimes you need to do it; if you'd stayed, the way I was treating you; we wouldn't be together today. I can promise you that."  
  
You lay back down on his chest, "Sometimes I fucking hate you, especially when I realize how much I love you."  
  
"Yeah, well, welcome to the flip-side of almost-thirty."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked.  
  
"It means welcome to the point in your life when you start having your first wave of realizations--you know, like, 'I'm thirty years old, and I'm insatiably attracted to a kid who's still in high school--'"  
  
"Brian."  
  
"'No, wait, I'm more than attracted to him; I care about him, care about him a lot....'" he stopped; his voice wasn't cooperating anymore.  
  
"Just stop; it's okay," you said quietly, smoothing your hand over his chest, but in true Brian Kinney fashion, he completely ignored you.  
  
"In fact, I care about him so much that I decide to show up at his prom--"  
  
You popped up off his chest and grabbed his gesturing hand out of the air, pressing it down on his body, "Please don't do this; please," but he employed his sheer physical strength and put you back where you were; you sighed, held onto him, and tried to ignore the fact that your body was starting to shake again.  
  
"And I think I want to go," he continued, "Because I'm going to make his night when I show up there, like I'm nursing some fantasy that he's having some horrible evening without me, and I'm going to just walk in there and sweep him off his feet--"  
  
"You did."  
  
"But that's not what happened."  
  
"Yes, it is, Brian."  
  
"No, it's not. See that's what you don't know."  
  
"Then tell me what I don't know."  
  
......  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"He made my night," Brian said.  
  
......  
  
And in the moments that followed, things began to shift between you--the tangible, your bodies moving again, Brian rolling on his side and looking at you, at the mess you'd once again become, and the intangible, the hushed realization as he held you and kept talking of what happened to _him_ that night; _his_ painting, brush stroke by brush stroke...  
  
"And for once, I'd done something that had made him happy; he was smiling, and for the first time, I knew that he could feel how I felt about him, even though I couldn't admit it out loud. He knew, and I knew, and I'd never felt anything that good or that weird before, and then some asshole decides that he's going to kill him, to take him away from me, the one thing I feel like I need in my life that needs me back, and to do it right in front of me, and I don't stop it from happening. I mean, Jesus Christ, two kids; I'm a grown man."  
  
"How can you say that I have no faith in you...when I'm here right now...listening to this?" you asked him.  
  
"I don't know," he admitted.  
  
You moved up and put your face next to his on the pillow, the back of your hand brushing his cheek, "Listen, I think you're a little fucked up about this emotionally, Brian."  
  
"There's a newsflash."  
  
"Your guilt about that night, Brian, you feel like you weren't honest with me before Chris attacked me."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About how you felt about me. You're a man of action, not a man of words, right?"  
  
"Yeah," he breathed.  
  
"Your actions, they meant something to you." He nodded. "They meant something to me. I speak Brian Kinney."  
  
"You speak it better than I do; that's what's so fucked up."  
  
"You thought I was going to die, that I was never going to know."  
  
"I did," he said.  
  
"But I didn't."  
  
"I can't even count how many times you died in my head."  
  
"In your heart, you mean. I died in your heart."  
  
He nodded, tears screaming down his face as if his eyes has yelled, _'Fire, everybody out!'_  
  
"You need to stop living like I did and let that go,” you told him, stroking the back of his head as he lay against you; your hand passing over the bump he'd gotten earlier that day, the one you'd all but forgotten about, “I knew you cared about me; everybody knew, Brian. You were only fooling yourself."  
  
"God, I'm really good at that."  
  
"You're a consumate professional, trust me."  
  
“Well, of course, I'm Brian Kinney for fuck's sake.”  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_a little taste of heaven_  
  
Madeline held your hands.  
  
"You don't have to touch him," her guardian said.  
  
"I knowed that; I just want to," she said, smiling at you with the most beautiful smile you'd ever seen; you couldn't stop staring at her, her eyes looked so familiar, so young, so innocent...  
  
_Daniel?_  
  
She winked at you.  
  
"What's going on?" you asked her, sounding like a frog, your mouth suddenly dry.  
  
She closed her eyes and then opened them again and the familiarity was gone, "Welcome to the AfterDeaf, Danny-Banny-Bo-Banny--"  
  
"Madeline!" the woman scolded her.  
  
She squeezed your hands, laughed, and started over, "Welcome to the AfterDeaf, Danny. I'm 'upposed to tell you that you are dead. Yeah...sorry," and then she jumped down off your desk very proud of herself. "All done," she announced.  
  
"You are not done," the woman said, taking the little girl's hand, "We gotta find the remote control." And then she turned to you, "My name's Tate, Danny. You need to come with us."  
  
Madeline reached back and held her hand out for you, "Come on, Danny-Danny-Bo-Banny, we gotta find the me-mote."  
  
You took her hand and started walking with them, out of your office, your secretary's office, and then into the hallway. You were in a hospital hallway, but not the one you ran; this one was older, more run down.  
  
"Where are we?" you asked them.  
  
"Holy Cross hospital," Tate said, walking straight ahead and as fast as she could like the three of you were on the run, "The pride of Georgia, and where they pay black nurses fifty cents less an hour but they'll never admit it."  
  
"You were a nurse?"  
  
"Yeah, psychiatric. We were the only ones that had to wear these itchy polyester uniforms, too."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Guess they thought we didn't actually do any real nursing. What kind of doctor were you?" she asked.  
  
You laughed, "I wasn't a doctor; my ego's nowhere near that big. I was a hospital administrator, ran the place behind the scenes," you explained.  
  
"Well, you must of run some shitty-ass hospital because they let you die."  
  
"DIE-DIE-BO-BYE-BANANA-FANA-FO-FI-FEE-FI-MO-MI-DIE!"  
  
"Keep it down, Peanut; you're gonna wake the dead."  
  
"That was a good one, Tate," Madeline said, and then she took off hop-scotching down the hallway.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_they miss you  
  
Ibiza.  
  
The final frontier.  
  
Hope you won't be here long. Feels like you don't have much time.  
  
You walk, slow and belabored on the beach, pass footprints going in the other direction, glance over your shoulder and see Ethan walking away...and then in front of you again...see him in the distance...so far away, standing at the water's edge watching something yellow bob up and down in the ocean.  
  
He can't be both places.  
  
Scream his name, "Ethan!" Both Ethans turn and look at you.  
  
Take off running toward the one at the water's edge. Panting like a dog when you get there, you stop in the sand, grab Ethan's shoulder, so angry for some reason; he turns and looks at you.  
  
"Nice to finally meet you."  
  
Alan.  
  
"You're not Ethan."  
  
"You're late."  
  
"You're __dead_ _."  
  
"Don't have time to argue with you," he says, touches your face with misplaced tenderness; you feel Justin inside him, seeping out, "I had you exactly right, such hard features; good thing I painted you on cement; that's the kind of canvas you belong on."  
  
"You hate me."  
  
He laughs, "You hate yourself."  
  
You point to the yellow dot in the distance as you ask Alan, "Is he dead, too?" as he studies you, the sense of loss overwhelming; the sense of intimacy out of place.  
  
"We're all a little dead, aren't we?"  
  
You nod and then you feel yourself sinking into the sand with the realization, your knees buckling underneath you, and he falls even lower, wraps his arms around you and props you back up. "Listen to me? Are you listening?" he says.  
  
You nod.  
  
He points to the yellow dot in the ocean and it's Justin kneeling on a tiny, square raft, panicking in the water. "He's waiting for you; he needs your help."  
  
"I don't know what to do."  
  
"You don't need to know; just do it."  
  
"Just do it?" you ask and hear Leo's laughter from somewhere. The yellow dot starts calling to you.  
  
"I'm leaving now," Alan says, "Don't let him fall off that raft--"  
  
"I know," you say, "I know; he can't swim."  
  
......  
  
Alan sings as he walks away, his head down, his hands shoved in his pockets; he doesn't have a care in the world, "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream...."  
  
......  
  
When you turn back around, there's nothing in the water. The sea is calm and glassy. You want to scream but you have no voice. Your body folds into the sand. You can do nothing but wish, so you wish for the water to come closer, to take you to him, but it won't come close enough.  
  
“Do you want to come to my party?” a pink voice asks. You can only see the pink voice in your mind, but she's there and her feet are very tiny in the sand.  
  
"What kind of party is it?"  
  
"Waffle is in the toaster,” she giggles.  
  
“Where?”  
  
“At my party?”  
  
“Where is your party?  
  
“In the toaster.”  
  
“I want some waffles, please,” and you feel yourself standing up in the sand.  
  
"You're 'upposed to ring the door bell!" she screams all of a sudden, and you feel yourself backing up in the sand.  
  
"Ding dong," you say in apology.  
  
She opens a door that comes out of nowhere and hands you a plastic container, "Here's your shushi, Brime Kinney. Bye, bye," and slams it in your face.  
  
You look down at the container and there's nothing in it; it's empty. "THERE'S NOTHING IN HERE!" you yell as if the door is a real sound barrier.  
  
"IT'S BETEND!" the pink voice screams back, coated with sticky frosting. Strawberry.  
  
"WELL, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH PRETEND SUSHI!" you scream at her, all of your anger focused on that squeaky pink voice.  
  
"I ALREADY KNOWED THAT, BRIME KINNEY! YOU HAFTA BETEND!"  
  
"I ASKED FOR WAFFLES!”  
  
“I KNOWED THAT; I PWAYED A TWICK ON YOU!”  
  
“YOU LITTLE PINK BITCH!”  
  
But then you're just yelling at yourself because the pink voice is all gone.  
  
You look down at your hand, and the sushi box isn't empty anymore; there's something in it.  
  
So you open it.  
  
There's a black necktie inside, folded up, covered in maple syrup. It speaks,  
  
"Brian."  
  
It's not a pink voice.  
  
It's a voice...  
  
...that loves you?  
  
You look up, and he's standing on a giant waffle on top of the glassy ocean in the suit Gabe brought him, his shirt unbuttoned and unbuttoned and unbuttoned. Try to walk toward him but the water becomes violent the minute you touch it, slamming you back on the beach. “Where are you?” you ask him.  
  
“In church.”  
  
“I can't come in?”  
  
“I don't know; do you want to?”  
  
“I want to be with you.” He sits down on the waffle like he's thinking about it. “Please.”  
  
He steps off the waffle and doesn't sink in the water; walks toward you on top of the water.  
  
“Look what I can do,” he says.  
  
“That's amazing.”  
  
“It's not real; it's just art.”  
  
“I know that,” you lie.  
  
“Sometimes we'll be living inside the artwork, okay?”  
  
"Whatever you want.”  
  
He steps onto the sand, and relief floods your body, so warm, you feel like you wet yourself, and you put your arms out because he's walking toward you and he lays inside them, against you, and says, "My pants are too long,”  
  
"They're just wet."  
  
"Oh."  
  
The waffle, his raft, it floats ashore, and within seconds sand crabs emerge all around it, devouring it; you watch it disintegrating...  
  
......  
  
You look up and see Daniel and Harper and Sam and Jon standing on the edge of cliff, and they're looking at you, so far away but you can see their eyes, and you follow their gaze down the rocks...  
  
to Alan's body...  
  
broken and bloody against them.  
  
And you take Justin's hand and lead him off the beach in the other direction without ever saying good-bye..._  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_keep walking_  
  
"Where are we going?" you asked Tate; she had to know; she had such a determined look on her face.  
  
"To find the others."  
  
"The others? That sounds kind of scary to me." And Madeline was so far ahead of the two of you, you almost couldn't see her. "Should we maybe...call her back?"  
  
"She's leading us," Tate said; she was so serious, it was making you uncomfortable. "Walk faster."  
  
"She's leading us? How do you know?"  
  
"She found you."  
  
"She found me? How?"  
  
"I don't really know. We got separated from the others when the music started playing; this loud, obnoxious music. She started to scream, and I was holding her, so I walked away from the music; she was just a baby then."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Maybe an hour ago. I don't know. There's no way to tell."  
  
"No way to tell?"  
  
"How long have you been in that office by yourself?" she asked you.  
  
"I don't know, about an hour?"  
  
"What year did you die?"  
  
"Nineteen eighty-two."  
  
"Madeline came in two thousand and eleven. That's how long you've been waiting there."  
  
"Are you shitting me?"  
  
"No, and I don't know why. I've never seen that happen before."  
  
"Seen what happen?"  
  
"I've never known anybody that had to wait on this side before."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"You died before me; you died before Madeline; we shouldn't be your pickups." And then Tate stopped on a dime at an intersection in the hallways; you'd both lost sight of Madeline. "Shit," she said.  
  
"I told you--"  
  
"Shut up. Just listen."  
  
So the two of you stood there in silence and then you heard a voice down the right hallway, "Tate-Tate-Bo-Bait-Banana-Fana-Fo-Fate...." Tate pointed in the direction of the tune, and the two of you found her sitting behind a custodian's cart at the end of the hallway. She'd grown again; her hair was in a pony tail; her dress was gone, and she was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and white tennis shoes with no socks; she was tan, and she was playing with on of the bracelets on her wrist, staring at her knees...  
  
"Why'd you stop, Peanut?" Tate asked her.  
  
Madeline looked up at her and there were tears in her eyes, "I don't know."  
  
Tate bent down in front of her, "Why are you crying?"  
  
"I'm really sad."  
  
"What's making you sad?" Tate asked as you pushed the cart out of the way so she could sit down beside her.  
  
"My feelings," she said. All of her baby talk was gone.  
  
"Do you still know where we're going?" Tate asked her, and Madeline nodded her head. "Is that what's making you sad?" Madeline nodded her head again. You crossed the hallway, standing on the other side, trying not to intrude, although neither of them seemed to mind your presence. "Can I tell you something, Peanut?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You look just like your mother. She has hair--"  
  
"Don't say 'has,' say 'had,'" Madeline said, "It makes me miss her."  
  
"Okay, sorry. She had hair exactly the same color as yours, and it was curly like yours when she was young, and she was full of energy and spunk, and she was smart just like you are, and she had feelings just like you have."  
  
"She had sad feelings?"  
  
"She did; she had a lot of them, and sometimes she would paint or draw or sing or dance or just talk and they would feel better."  
  
"I like to sing," Madeline said.  
  
"I know you do."  
  
"It's very hard to be eight years old, Tate."  
  
"I know it is, but look on the bright side, you'll be at least twelve by the time we find them."  
  
Tate's heart-to-heart with the magical little girl seemed to do the trick; she smiled, got to her feet and took off again, playing a game with herself and the squares that made up the hospital floor as she walked, and you could hear her, "'Find-'em, Find-'em, Banana, Fana, Bo, Bind-'em, Fee, Fi, Mo, Mind-'em, Find-'em!"  
  
"You're really good with her," you told Tate as you followed Madeline's sneakers.  
  
"I practically raised her mother; it's a long story."  
  
"Who are these 'others' we're trying to find? I feel this weird sense of dread inside me."  
  
"I'd tell you who they are, but then I'd have two people to chase," she told you, "And besides, it doesn't matter; you're going to meet them either way."  
  
  
No lyrics this time; all subtitles are advertising slogans or related ditties, brands are as follows: AT&T, Verizon, Oppenheimer, MetLife, Kmart,Virginia Slims, Travelocity, Maybelline, AT&T again, Dow Chemical, Liberty Mutual, Philadelphia Cream Cheese, Rozerem, and Johnnie Walker.  
  
I can't even begin to thank [](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/profile)[**briannahai**](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/) enough for the artwork in this chapter. She's the artist responsible for this painting as well as the one Alan did in the tunnel. I had a request for something I was looking for, and she gave me those two paintings. The one that I used in the tunnel was just one she threw in there for me, and it completely re-enhanced Alan's character for me, and the one in this chapter, well, it brought everything home. I've had these paintings for over a year, determined to use them when and only when I felt the story could do them justice. As with EAO, the artwork, at least for me, has inspired me to go places I hadn't even fleshed out, and I'm forever grateful for it. Thank you, [](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/profile)[**briannahai**](http://briannahai.livejournal.com/) , for everything.  



	45. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 42-Surrogates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 4/7/08] This chapter took up 4 posts on LJ. It's posted here in full.

**BEYOND THE** **YELLOW BRICK ROAD** **-CHAPTER 42-SURROGATES**

**ZEEK ZIRROLLI'S POV**  
_here I am  
the one that you love  _

The headline on the front page of the _New York Times_ that Friday morning, April 8, 2011, was one you expected but that did nothing to lessen its impact when you read it:

_New York’s Finest Plead Guilty:  No Denial, No Trial_

You tossed away everything but the first few pages, folded them, and stuck them in your interior suit pocket, and when you walked into Mama Zirrolli's at eight a.m. to find your little brother slinging hash in his suit pants, an old t-shirt of yours, and his trusty apron, he only had one question for you, “Who tied your tie?”

“Lana,” you said, pulling a stool up to the cash register island.  “Coffee ready?”  Gabe pointed his spatula at the coffee pot and declared, “So that's where you were last night.”

“That's where I was,” you confirmed for him, sitting down with your very hot mug.

“Rube called you six times.”

“I know.”

“I ended up talking to him for forty-five minutes because you wouldn't answer your fucking phone.”

“I was busy.”

_“Busy,”_ Gabe repeated as if it was the vilest word in the English language.

“It’s your fault.  If you hadn't given Trinity my fucking phone number, I probably wouldn't have been out so late.”

“You just said you were with Lana.”

“Did I say it was a private party?”

********************* _  
roses are red  
some diamonds are blue  
chivalry is dead  
but you're still kinda cute _  

And, indeed, it wasn't...

The night before, well, you'd tried to do the right thing.  You knew what kind of mood you were in when you showed up at Lana's watering hole for the second day in a row knowing that if you showed just the slightest bit of emotional unrest, her personal watering hole would be a welcome shelter for your dick in the _very_ foreseeable future.  She smiled when you saw you walk in; you were soaked to the bone from the endless rain.  She was pouring—and smiling—before you even sat all the way down.  “You're soaking wet,” she said as she handed you a double shot of some top shelf whiskey.  “I'm kind of hoping to say that to you later,” you said as you took it from her.  No need to beat around the bush when the bush was just as happy to be there as you were.  “I get off in an hour and a half,” she replied.  “Then so will I,” you said with a smile.  The bar was crowded and noisy; no one wanted to venture out into the rain, and it was so loud that you never heard your cell phone ring.  At one point in the evening, you went to use the restroom, and in that quieter echo chamber, it beeped at you until you flipped it open.  There were nine calls:  six from Rube and three from a number you didn't recognize.  You called it and were greeted by a chirpy little voice that sounded vaguely familiar... 

_“Hello?”_

“This is Zeek; who is this?” you asked.

_“It's Trinity...from police--”_

“How'd you get my number?”

_“Your brother.”_

You pondered that for a few seconds and decided you didn't really care, “Yeah, whatcha need?”

_“Well... it's really late now...but...I was wondering if....”_ You wanted to tell her to cut to the chase, but women don't like that when you first meet them, so you waited patiently, staring at the crappy ceiling in the bathroom, “ _...Wondering if you wanted to have dinner.”_

“I already ate.”

_“Well, so did I, actually....  I mean, it's so late now....”_

You looked at your phone, “Shit, it's eleven thirty.”

_“Where are you?”_

.......

With your foot propping open the back door of the bar’s kitchen, you pondered what you were about to propose to Lana while you smoked a cigarette.  When you returned to your stool, Lana was way at the other end of the bar, but she eventually saw you and pulled herself away from the scores of drunks clamoring for her attention and made it back to you.  She took one look at you and asked, “What's up?  You okay?”

“You up for anything tonight?” you asked her.

“What happens if I say 'no?'”

“It'd be like old times...you know.....”

“How _old_?” she asked, leaning on the bar at that point; you could see right down her shirt.

“Dangerously old,” you told her.

Lana got a twinkle in her eye, “'Old' like pretty little artist with long, honey-colored hair and no boundaries...?”

“Same show, different actress,” you said.

“Who?”

“Police chief's sec--,” you responded and before you could say anything else there was a hand on your arm; you turned to your left and there was Trinity, looking much less prissy than she had earlier that day.  Her hair was down; her shirt wet; her smile beguiling.  You introduced her, “Lana, this is Trinity.  Trinity, Lana.”

“Hi,” Trinity said.  Lana smiled at Trinity, filled her drink order, and then smiled at you and said, “Let me wrap things up.”  You put your arm around Trinity's waist and said, “Drink up.”

“So I guess it is too late for dinner,” Trinity said as she picked up her glass.

“Yeah...,” you agreed, “But there's always desert.”

*********************  
_you’re still the same_

Gabe slammed your breakfast down in front of you.  “You fucked her?  The chief's assistant?  The man who’s doing a major favor for us today?”

“Well, I wasn't the only one,” you offered.

“What in the holy hell is wrong with you?”

“Your vagina is twice as big as your dick, you know that, 'Cakes?  She had no problem with it.  This isn't nineteen fifty-five as much as you wish it was, and besides, I was a total gentleman; I let them get it on first.”

Gabe cracked another egg and threw away the yoke instead of the shell, you were so far under his skin, “Goddamnit.  She's going to be there today; the chief’s going to be there today.  You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Only _you_ could meet a girl named 'Trinity,' and coax her into a three-way.”

“I told her it was her birth right.”

Gabe tossed his spatula in the sink and sat down across from you, “Unfuckingbelievable.”

“I know; it was like I had my own little ass menagerie.”

Gabe stuck his fork in your face, “It's called a _'ménage à trois_ ,' you dolt.”

“It’s called me and my dick and an all-night pass at Great Ass-venture, and let me reassure you, ‘Cakes, it doesn’t get any better than that.”

 

*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_I’m findin’ it hard to believe we’re in heaven_

When you’re alive, you get through each day, each challenge you face, convincing yourself that death is the ultimate relief, but you’d found no relief in this place you found yourself dead in.  You’d been bored, restless, surprised, and confused.  Relief seemed to be a foreign concept in the AfterDeath, but you weren’t willing to give up the ghost completely, although a dead man hanging onto hope certainly should’ve crossed over wearing an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt that had an arrow pointing up.  Your walking and walking and walking was coming to an end again, and there you were in front of:

Door Number One.

You stood there with Tate and Madeline, outside the closed gray door, and waited.  Madeline was fifteen.  She'd become unruly and then an emotional wreck, and then started her period, and then started doing cartwheels and handsprings down the halls, and then she became interested in you...

“She's just like her mother,” Tate said, “And her mother is just like her mother.  If I had a dime for every doctor Ruth batted her eyelashes at, I'd be one rich zombie.”

“It's just...  She's _fifteen._ ”

“Her mother and your son--”

“They're married?” you asked.

Tate laughed at you, “Hell, no.  Your son's a fairy.”  And when she saw the look on your face, she revised her statement, “I'm sorry, I mean he's one of those homosexuals.”

“He's gay?”

“You didn't know that, did you?” she asked.

“He was a kid when I--”

“Shit, shit, shit.  See, that's my fault.  I'm sorry.  We haven't found the remote yet; I shouldn't have told you that.”  You'd stopped walking at that point and were just leaning against the corridor wall.  “Danny, come on,” Tate urged you.

“I don't want him to be gay,” you said.  Tate called ahead to Madeline and asked her to do her gymnastics in one spot for a while; she agreed and you kept hearing her feet smack the ground every few seconds.  “I don't want to go any further,” you told her.  “I don't want to see anything.”

“Well, that doesn't matter; you have to.”

“No, I don't.  I'll just stay here.  I'm in a fucking hospital.  I have everything I need,” you told your post-mortem tour guide.

But then she broke the bad news to you, “This place isn't really a hospital, Danny.  It isn't really anything, and even if Madeline and I were physically able to walk away from you, which were not, it wouldn't stay this way.  It would go away.”

“Why?”

“Because it's only here as a means to a means.”

“You mean a 'means to an end.'”

“No, I meant what I said.  There is no end, at least not one that I've ever seen.”

“Screw it; I don't care.”

Tate walked to the other side of the hall and leaned against the wall, “Let me explain something to you about being dead—the only difference between being up here and down there is that down there you had control over what you did and up here you don't.”

“So?”

“So you're going to feel the same things, want the same things, need the same things—only you can't control how you resolve those feelings or get what you want or need.  The only thing you can do is go with the flow; that's the only choice you have and the best option to get you where you think you need to be.”

“TATE, DANNY, CHECK ME OUT!” you heard next, and Madeline came barreling down the corridor showing off her roundoff double back handspring back-flip and her picture perfect landing, and Tate shook her head at the teen, “Girl, it's a good thing your ass is already dead 'cause you're about to kill yourself.”

“I'm awesome,” she said.

“You ready to walk?” Tate asked you, and you nodded your head, and Madeline took off again.  A few minutes later, you looked up and she was twirling two batons.

“Where the hell she'd get those?” you ask Tate.

“Zombie flea market, I guess,” Tate sighed.

......

On your way to Door Number One, you asked Tate what else she knew about your son, and she was reluctant to say anything, but finally, she gave in—sort of.  “Look, I'm not gonna tell you too much about him because that gets everything out of order.  All I'm gonna say is that I thought at first that you were him because--”

“Because why?” you asked.

“Because one of his friends, Alan, is up here...because he was just murdered in front of your son's home.”

“Because he was gay?” you asked.

Tate seemed exasperated, “Look, I know you died in the eighties and all, but not everything in life—or death—has to do with being gay, okay?”

“Okay, I'm sorry; I just don't understand.”

“He was murdered real bad, and your son found him...”

“Who killed him?”

“Cops.”

“Why?”

“Your son is a rich shrink; Alan was homeless, and they were friends.  Maybe that pissed them off or something.  Hell if I know.”

“My son's a doctor?”

“Yep, a very gay, very rich doctor.”  She turned her head, put her hand on your arm and stopped your forward motion, “Now, you're not so upset about the fairy part, are you?”

“I'm so proud of him,” you gushed.

“He still likes to give blow jobs.”

“Shut up.”

And by that point, you could see Madeline up ahead standing still in front of a closed door, and as you and Tate got closer, she was visibly distressed.  Tate reached out and put her hand on the girl's forehead, “She's burning up.”

“Somebody's in there,” Madeline said as she touched the metal handle on the door and the heat was obvious in her hand; she immediately let go.  “You open it, Tate.”

Tate gave both you and Madeline a wary look and then touched the door knob.  “It's not hot to me,” she said as she turned it and then peeked inside.  _“Oh good lord, Jesus,”_ she whispered and she pulled it shut again.

“What?  What is it?” you asked.

“The remote's in there,” Tate said as if she was rendering bad news.

“Well, go get it,” you said.

“Your wife is in there, too,” she said.

“Emma?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't really want to see her,” you admitted, feeling guilty, “I mean, maybe not right now.”

“No, you don't,” Tate said, “'Cause she ain't in there by herself.” 

Madeline leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and her entire body started to glow.  And then a sly, serene smile covered her face; her eyes closed.  “It's an _orgy_ ,” she said, the way one fantasizes about eating a bag of Hershey’s kisses.

“With who?” you asked.

Tate pushed Madeline away from the door as she informed youu, “Emma, her best friend, Sandra, a Ronald Reagan impersonator, and Orville Redenbacher.”

_“What?”_

“I’m gonna get that clicker; it's on the bed frame, and then I'm gonna get the hell out of there.  Do _not_ follow me in there Madeline.”

_“It feels good,”_ she moaned.

“You listen to me, Maddie.  It probably does, but you don't want your first time to be with a man who probably only needs three minutes in a microwave to pop, got it?”

And then the three of you heard a voice from the other side of the gray door; it was Emma's:

_“Oh, Mr. Redenbacher, tear down my walls!”_

‘Reagan's’:  _“There you go again.”_

_“Or my name isn't Sandra Lynn Massey!”_

You threw up in your mouth.

“Cover me!” Tate said as she bolted inside.  When she returned a few seconds later, slamming the door behind her, she was winded and disheveled.  “Here,” she said, slapping the remote in your hand.

It was covered in butter.

You looked up at Madeline who was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette; she glanced at you as she exhaled; her shirt had gotten tighter, her voice has gotten smoother; “So Danny, was it good for you, too?”

*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_he’s a real nowhere man_

Waking up that Friday morning, the day of Alan’s funeral, wasn’t easy.  In fact, you tried to avoid it for as long as you could.  The guest room in the suite was dark thanks to its heavy, tacky curtains and Brian was right beside you, sound asleep on his stomach.  You pulled the sheets off of him—albeit rather slowly--so you could stare at his body, and then you felt guilty because he might get cold, so you covered him back up and lay right beside him.  His eyes fluttered for a few seconds.  You kissed his bicep and gazed at his face.

…..

You sighed.

……

You rolled on your other side and tried to go back to sleep and that’s when he reached out, snatched you and pulled you back against him.  _“Where are you going?”_ he asked, his words branding the inquiry behind your ear.

“Nowhere, I guess,” you admitted, the significance of his question and your answer yet to make itself relevant.

His hand moved slowly up your back, his fingers eventually combing through your hair as he kissed the back of your neck.  _“How long ‘till we have to get up?”_

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, “We’re not going.”

*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_and she’s taking off her dress_

Harper invited you into her bedroom that morning when you made it clear that you'd come to see her, so you sat in an winged-back chair by the window, staring out of it when she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor.  “I really wish you wouldn't do that,” you told her, but she didn't care what you wanted—not one bit--as she picked the pooled fabric off the floor and reintroduced it to a hanger.  She wasn't completely undressed; she was wearing a slip of some sort--something old and stained—as she stood in front of her closet exchanging one dress for another.

“I can't make up my mind,” she said.

“Was that your mother's?” you asked, meaning the creamy aged nylon coating covering her body.  Years of knowing her and Daniel and you knew that therapy for Harper is whenever and wherever she wants it...and _free_.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is this the first time you've worn it?” you asked her.

“Yes, it is.”

Amelia toddled in with her cereal spoon in her left hand and questioned her mother, “Mommy?”

“You're supposed to eat breakfast at the table, Amelia.”

“But I hafta...  I already knowed that...  I hafta--”

“You have to what?” Harper asked her.

“I'm 'upposed to wear a leckness today 'cause it's a lock... and you're 'upposed to lock it.”

“Yes, you are, but you have to finish your breakfast first, then get dressed, and _then_ I'll put the necklace on for you.”

“'Cause I'm 'upposed to,” Amelia reiterated. 

“It's a ' _locket_ ,' Amelia,” Harper stressed.  “One word... lock _et._ ”

“I already knowed that it's a lock 'cause you lock it 'cause I already knowed that.”

“Okay, well if you already know that, then why aren't you in the kitchen with your father finishing your breakfast?”

Amelia looked at her spoon and then at you, and you shrugged your shoulders, so she turned back to her mother, her tiny sticky hand reaching out and touching Harper's thigh and, therefore, the slip Harper was wearing; her eyes widened as she touched it as if it had magical powers. “'Cause...'cause you're so 'squisite, Mommy....and Daddy....,” and then she reached out and wrapped both of her arms around Harper's legs and hugged them, “'Cause Daddy F-  'Cause Daddy F-C-U... F-U-C-K you in that bery pretty dress.”

“Sam!”

You made a mental note to buy Amelia a very tiny couch for her birthday.

*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_don’t need no baggage  
just get on board  _

Justin’s announcement had taken you off guard.  He was ready to move on, ostensibly to get his morning fuck right on schedule, but his abrupt change of plans had made you lose interest.  He turned to face you, maybe to see what the hold up was, and that’s when you told him, “Well, I’m going.” You watched his face trying to gauge his reaction as the light around the edges of the curtains began to sneak in, slowly surrendering to the day, and then you finished, “And after what happened to me yesterday, I’m not going by myself.”

“Don’t do this,” he said.                                      

“I’m serious.  I need you with me.”

He sat up and crossed his legs, “No, you don’t.  You need a babysitter.” 

“Okay, fuck that then.  I _want_ you with me.  How’s that?”  He was pissed on all fronts at that point because the bed in the guest room was in a corner, and he had nowhere to go except deeper into it, scooting away from you.

“You didn’t even know Alan.  You’re just being a dick.”

“He painted my goddamn portrait underneath New York City, Justin.  I’m gonna go pay my respects to the guy and his friends.  I happen to have a lot of respect for struggling, young artists.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.  I married one, didn’t I?”

……

And the rapid fire was over as quickly as it had started.

……

And the silence that followed was so awkward it creaked.

……

Like a ghost in the attic.

Sometimes something can go wrong in the weirdest way with Justin, and you never know it until its _way_ too far gone—like cheese and crackers and a picnic on the floor.

You couldn’t tell from the look on his face what you’d said or done, but whatever it was, it was worse than cheese and crackers— _way_ worse.

So you lay there trying to think of what could be worse than cheese and crackers.

_Moldy cheese and crackers?_

Funny thing…you weren’t that far off.

*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_and she opens up her eyes_

Harper’s bedroom was the darkest room in their apartment, but not because of the windows.  The floor and walls were a dark mahogany reminiscent of an old, old movie.  It was the only room in the apartment where the walls matched the dark hardwood floors, and it made the occupier feel encapsulated, almost as if he or she were living in a very roomy coffin.  It had to be haunted by something.

Amelia was led out of the foreboding room by her father, and then Harper turned to you, “You can stop laughing now.  Why are you here anyway?”  She was still--supposedly--deciding on a dress.  “I wanted to see how you were doing,” you admitted, taking in the random pieces of decorative molding in the corners that didn’t seem to serve any purpose.  “Well, clearly, I'm ‘Mother of the Year.’”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Your righteous-ass boyfriend pissed me off last night.”

“I know, and he's sorry.  He doesn't know you inside and out, and he's used to having a pulpit.”

“Is he okay?”

“Richard?  Of course.”

“No, Justin.  He said you were with Justin last night.”

“I was.”

“Well?  Is he okay?”

“He's struggling with today; are you?”

“You really came all the way over here to check on me?”

“I did.”

“I find that suspiciously considerate of you.”

“Well, regardless, Daniel would be here if he had it in him; he'd be sitting right here.”

“I should call him,” Harper said wistfully, sitting down on her bed.  The thin ivory sheets looked ghostly; the abandoned wrappings of a mummy perhaps.  “I don't want you to call him,” you said, leaning forward, “He's not himself right now.”

“ _That's_ why you're here,” she said, and when you nodded, she finished her thought, “I'm worried about the wrong person.”

********************* **  
BRIAN’S POV**  
_when the walls  
come tumblin', tumblin'  
crumblin', tumblin'  
down   _

You knew you could probably seduce Justin out of his well, but you wanted him to come out on his own.  The whirlwind of the last few days was beginning to alter your perspective...

Although Justin had been ‘gone’ for six years, your reunion—for the most part—felt like slipping back into your favorite pair of jeans that had fallen down—almost forgotten--in the back of your closet.  But once you put them back on and started to move around in them, you realized how old they really were, saw that the holes in them were bigger than you remembered, and that there was a bunch of shit in the pockets you’d forgotten all about.

Something had just shaken out of one of those pockets and was lying in between you on the sheets, and nobody wanted to claim it.

Justin’s jaw was set firm, but it was all for show, you could tell.  His anger was a cloak around something else.  “I just said something that really pissed you off, right?”  He nodded his head.  “Gonna tell me what it was?”

……

……

It took him awhile because apparently his mouth was sewn shut.  “The last thing you said,” he finally released.

“The last thing I said?”  He nodded again.  You thought for a second, “That I married an artist?  That pissed you off?”

“Yes."

“Why?  You don’t like that ring on your finger?”

……

(His impending reaction to your remark, well, it reminded you of those tops you used to play with on the kitchen floor when you were little, the ones where you’d yank the wire, let go, and then watch it spin like mad bumping into the dishwasher, the cabinets, the refrigerator, over and over again until the string was back inside.  Sometimes you’d corner it, pull the string, and then put your finger on the very top just to feel the wicked vibration as it spun wildly in place burning your skin.  Justin was starting to spin like that, and his string was a lot longer than you ever imagined…)

“ _Fuck_ the ring.  You don’t know what the fuck you married,” he spat out.

“I don’t?”

What came next, his answer to your stupid question, came at you hard, his words like one of those rogue tidal waves that supposedly explains the Bermuda Triangle, “No, you don’t.  You don’t know _shit_ about _anything_ \--except that _your_ life is perfect with your millions of dollars and huge house and robots and businesses and minions and me to fuck every night—“

_Whoa._

“I passed out cold yesterday and smacked my head on the fucking sidewalk.  What’s perfect about that?” you asked him.

“You’ll have that fixed in three days, tops—just like always.”

“Oh yeah, right; I forgot because I’m also a magician.”

“And probably God,” he shot back.

“Okay, fine, I’m the be all end all, so then who the fuck are you?” you asked him, and that _really_ pissed him off, and he kicked a pillow toward your face.  You caught it and threw it on the floor. 

“Fuck _you_ , Brian.”

“Answer _me_.”

……

……

He stared at you, his eyes so dark they looked like two gun barrels pointed at your face.

……

You didn’t look away.

……

……

And then he pulled the trigger, and as you suspected, his bullets were blanks…

……

“I’m an idiot,” he said, and the anger was bleeding out of his voice, and you really didn’t like the ache that was taking its place, “A total…fucking…idiot.”

He’d spun out, completely.

…...

“Why are you an idiot?” you asked him, your voice softening in response to the look on his face.

“It’s really complicated,” he answered, almost disgusted by it.

“I know I’m not the genius that you are, but try me, I might understand it.”  He made a face at you, and you made one back, and then the stiff silence returned, but you felt safe enough to reach out and touch him, so you put your hand on his thigh.  He looked down at it.  You squeezed and right then a tear fell and landed on the back of your hand.  _“Don’t,”_ you said, reaching up and wiping away the next one that was ready to fall.  Your request made no difference, so you tugged on his hand, pulling him back down in the sheets.  He pressed his face against your chest as if that was going to hold everything else inside him.  He’d been an emotional basket case for days, but this was different.  Those meltdowns were more about you or the friction between the two of you; this one was about him.  You could feel the difference; you could feel how physically tired he was and what it took for him to get to that moment with you in the room.  So you let him lie there and you thought about the nights after he got hurt when he wouldn’t let you touch him, and you realized that although you’d broken through that barrier a decade ago, you’d missed the mark by a country mile.  You were standing in front of the wrong fucking wall the whole fucking time. 

“Just tell me,” you said, and he wrapped his arms around you and said nothing.  “Are you straight?  Is that it?” you tried.  You could feel him laughing, just a little.  “No, you dumb ass.” _(According to the_ New England Journal of Medicine _, verbal marital affection wanes in the morning hours.)_

“Pregnant?”

“I was, but it was Zeek’s, so I had an abortion.”  ( _Talk about a perfect recipe for a dumb blond.)_   You reached beneath the covers and pinched his ass. “Ow, damn.”  And again the room got quiet again, so you threw out your last idea, “So what?  You don’t want to bottom anymore?”And that’s when he looked at you, and it was, in retrospect, one of the scariest ten seconds of your life, but then he _finally_ started getting real with you…

*********************

**USTIN'S POV**  
_but see how deep that bullet lies_  
  
The only truth left in your life that morning was a bit of an oxymoron. The only truth was that the man who’d introduced you to every high and low you’d ever felt in your life—usually with very little warning—was the only thing you had left to hold on to. It scared you and reassured you at the same time; that’s why no one else would ever understand why you wanted Brian’s eyes to close when you kissed him, why you wanted to hear him whisper the things that he whispers when his hand is between your legs, why you needed to see the sly smile on his face, however slight, as he fills you, because he never breathes until he’s recovered from that initial _so-tight-warm-oh-god_ pleasure, and when he finally does, he always exhales into a kiss…  
  
Because you needed him deep inside you to tell him the truth, to tell him that since you’d come back, the only time you didn’t feel like an utterly pointless piece of crap was when you were underneath him. You needed to tell him that all of those nights that he’d come from work to find you waiting for him in bed or the sauna with nothing on but a smile weren’t just wedded bliss; they were your whiskey, and the worse it got, the more you needed. You had to tell him that you were really afraid—especially after that particular week in New York—that you’d come back to him for the wrong reason. And so you did. You told him everything because you loved him—especially after that week in New York. You loved him so deep down, so deep that no fuck in the world could ever get to it, and yet you were overwhelmed with this burning compulsion inside you to try to reach it anyway.  
  
And he looked at you in a way that felt sort of familiar and sort of not, and then he kissed you like it might be the last time he was ever going to get the chance, and you stayed with it for as long as you could until you couldn’t because you felt like you’d been dishonest with him, albeit unintentionally, and he put his hand on your face because he knew it would act like a magnet and bring your eyes back to his, and when it did, he asked you, “What?”  
  
“Sometimes I don’t think you listen to me,” you said.  
  
“I listened to everything you said.”  
  
“Then why are you acting like nothing’s wrong?”  
  
“Because it’s okay.”  
  
You sighed in frustration, “No, it’s not okay. I’m trying to tell you that I think came back to you because I was running away from something else.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So what? Nothing I do affects you? You’re just above all of this? This isn’t an equal playing field? Am I still some stupid teenager to you or something?”  
  
“No,” he emphasized, “But you’re pissed and we’re fucking, and your ass just got really tight.” And when you moved to drastically change that scenario, he doubled back fast, “I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I was just trying to lighten the mood. Please, just….” And you stayed where you were. “Just talk,” he said, “Just talk; I’ll listen.” And then he kissed you on the forehead and ran his fingers through your hair.  
  
Your hands rested on his shoulders, “Remember when you said that you wanted me safe?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It goes both ways, Brian.” His body relaxed in your arms. “I don’t think you understand what that’s like for me. I’m not you; I don’t have the resources you have. I can’t protect you with money or influence or even physical strength. I can’t do—"  
  
“You do it with distance,” he said quietly. You could feel the truth percolating inside you, ready to steam through your pores; Brian kissed the side of your face; he could feel it, too.  
  
“When I came to see you after I got hurt, that’s when I realized that that’s all I had. I felt like the closer I got to you, the more pain I caused.”  
  
“That’s not true,” he said.  
  
“And then we tried to make it work and we couldn’t, and the only time I ever had any power in the relationship—"  
  
“Was when you left.”  
  
“And with power comes responsibility,” you admitted.  
  
Brian lifted up a little so he could see you better, “It wasn’t a real power, Justin. It was just perception. You’re not responsible for this shit,” and then he lay back down.  
  
“I know that intellectually, but you have to understand that I want for you what you want for me. I can’t tolerate a minute of my life if I think I’m hurting you.”  
  
“So your solution to this is to suffer in silence? To lie to me in the morning and then spend your days at St. James hanging out with ghosts? Where are you going with this?”  
  
Your hand stopped moving on his back, “How’d you know that?”  
  
“I work in the city; I drive around; I recognize my ‘vette.”  
  
And when you asked him why he didn’t question you earlier about it he told you that he was your partner, not the FBI, and that he trusted you, and that you’d fess up when you were ready…  
  
And when you were done, when the truth had finally come out, you exhaled and relaxed because the source of your cancerous, ongoing discomfort was beginning to dissipate, and the situation was very clear. You’d been trapped inside a bastardized version of _The Wizard of Oz:  
  
There’s no place--that feels--like home._  
  
He touched your face, and you smiled because he was smiling a little, and his lips felt very soft and very sweet when he kissed you and then passively urgent and needy in that way he has about him when he wants you, and you didn’t want it to stop; you surrendered to it because you wanted to feel needed, and you wanted to hear him breathe the way he breathes when he wants you to touch him…  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_you got a fast car  
I want a ticket to anywhere  
maybe we make a deal  
maybe together we can get somewhere  
  
his confession a few minutes prior…_  
  
You rolled onto your back, “C'mere for a second,” and held him as his head lay heavy on your chest, your fingers twirling his hair. He'd brought the sheets and blankets with him as he lay down, only his head visible. You held his hand where it lay on your chest. “What's happening to you, this isn't your fault, okay?” He didn't say anything; he just tensed up on top of you, and then he let go of your hand, and you thought he was going to get up or move away, but he didn't; his fingers crept up your chest and then wrapped-loosely--around your neck. You put your abandoned hand on his shoulder, letting it dip beneath the sheets.  
  
You lay with him in silence.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispered, “I’m sorry I lied to you,” and you put your hand on his chin and made him look at you as you told him, “I don’t give a fuck about that; I give a fuck about how you feel; you’re too pretty to be sad.” He rolled his eyes at you and sort of smiled. “I’m serious,” you reiterated, “It’s a fucking tragedy. It’s worse than starving children in Africa. I can’t take it.”  
  
“You’re so stupid sometimes.”  
  
“Too bad; it’s just the truth.”  
  
He lay back down and sighed; his body feeling heavier and heavier as the seconds passed, and then he finally spoke, his fingers wound tightly in your hair; he was holding onto you...for fear of sinking?  
  
He told you what a nightmare he'd been living, that he felt like he was trying to out run something that was always right behind him, that he was terrified that he'd brought this thing back to you. He told you that he felt like he was tied up—that his love for you had bound this pain inside him, and once inside him, it had rotted him from the inside out and turned him into a corpse.  
  
You told him that you knew, that you understood now, that you could see it in him when you left for work, when you came home from work, that you were hoping like hell—like an idiot--that it was boredom...  
  
He wished.  
  
He talked about the emptiness inside him, and you felt like you were listening to yourself ten years prior because he'd figured out what you'd figured out: that there's no such thing as empty emptiness; there's something there, something dark and dank and deplorable, something that you'd rather not see or smell or touch, so maybe you drank and danced and fucked and maybe he painted for Hollywood hot shots or rich psychiatrists or gallery owners; maybe he sold his pain to the highest bidder--  
  
(--and by the way, why were you such a fucking idiot to buy it?)  
  
And then he realized what you'd finally realized: you can't out run your own shadow.  
  
He told you about St. James, about how he was trying to loosen something inside himself, knock out a brick in the wall between him and this anchor sinking his soul and get some fucking relief. That he would go there, walk around the locker room, the one place where he knew he fought back _before_ he got bashed because he could smell courage in there, because he could feel his fist balling up and making contact; he could taste the blood. The janitor there remembered him, told him to leave the first time, but after that, he just left him alone, let him lean against the lockers and feel the cold metal against his skin....  
  
“That scratch on your back?” you asked him. “You did that to yourself?” He stopped talking and let go of you, so you back-pedaled, “Never mind; it doesn't matter.”  
  
“I didn't mean to,” he said. “Okay.” He lay back down again, and you stroked the back of his head, and then his movie—his feature presentation—began again, telling you that afterwards, he'd go to the loft and take a shower, and lie in your bed—naked and without even drying off--and let himself get freezing cold and try to make something come out of him, something he could put in front of himself and deal with—because he couldn’t take what was inside him anymore.  
  
And then he'd go home and shower and get dressed and smile and be waiting for you when you got home from work, and you were none the wiser.  
  
Except that you were.  
  
You felt sick.  
  
Because you knew something wasn't right. You knew because you’d sent Theodore to the loft one day to get something for you, and when he returned he told you—during what was a very strange conversation—that someone had been there, had just been there, and when you asked him why…  
  
“Because Justin’s blazer from high school is balled up on the bed…and the sheets are wet.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I heard water dripping; I mean I wouldn’t have gone into your bedroom otherwise. The shower was dripping.”  
  
Theodore may be one of the most boring and sometimes annoying people on the planet, but he was also one of the most discreet, and he quietly left your office, making no comment as you gathered your phone and your coat and left Kinnetik. You drove to the loft in complete silence, and when you got there, Theodore was right. The shower was no longer dripping, but everything else was exactly as he’d described it. You called Justin’s cell and were kind of relieved when he didn’t pick up. You hung his blazer back up, storing it back in its plastic storage bag, and then changed the sheets on the bed. And then you left; your memory of what you’d seen left behind balled up in the wet sheets in the dirty clothes.  
  
You’d refused to let that experience or any of the other red flags congregate in your mind to form a picture you didn’t want to see…  
  
Justin didn't want to re-assimilate into the life he once had; he didn't want to socialize; you'd tell yourself he was being a temperamental artist, only he was never in his studio. You'd come from work night after night to a dark house and have to play hide-and-seek to find him. Once in March, you finally stood in your kitchen and called the house from your cell, and when he answered, you asked, “Where are you?”  
  
_“In the sauna.”_  
  
He didn't answer you in his come-and-get-me voice, but you pretended he did, shedding your clothes and joining him. It was dark in there, too. He'd been in there for a good fifteen minutes; you looked at the timer before you went in. You turned the lights on, keeping them very dim as you stepped inside; he was lying flat on his back on one of the benches. You sat down beside him; he sat up a little and then rested his sweaty head on your legs.  
  
“You've been in here a long time,” you said.  
  
“Feels good.”  
  
“What do you want to do for dinner?”  
  
“I don't know; I'm not really hungry.” It dawned on you that night in the sauna that he hadn't exactly been gaining weight since he got home. He turned his head toward your stomach and moaned, “Give it to me.”  
  
“Give you what?” you asked.  
  
“You know what. I've been lying here for twenty minutes fantasizing about sucking you off.”  
  
“You have?” He didn't answer you; he moved fast and slippery on his stomach, pushing you back into the corner, shoving one of your legs off the bench, and then your hand was on his damp hair as he kissed the inside of your thigh, your balls, and then you were feeding him your cock. He moaned hard when he went down on you, and you gripped his shoulder with one hand and the bench with the other trying to keep your body from sliding as you began to perspire. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
He stopped _right_ before you came, climbed into your lap, and whispered in your ear, _“Fuck me.”_ And you had to bite your lip not to come as he sat down, and he made it last fucking forever, and your eyes were closed and you were about to scream when he finally sat all the way down, and then you reached down and grabbed his little ass with both hands and took advantage of how slick your bodies were and it was over for both of you in a rough take-no-prisoners sixty seconds or so.  
  
_“I wanna fuck you tonight,”_ he whispered in your ear as you were both collapsed against the wall of the sauna. You were still panting.  
  
“Imagine that.”  
  
_“I promise; I'll be gentle,”_ he teased you.  
  
He wasn't.  
  
And all day at work the next day, you caught yourself remembering it, so distracted that you finally went into your private bathroom and jerked off to the images in your head. When you got home that night, he was in the bedroom, undressed and waiting for you.  
  
You gave in to him again.  
  
Something wasn't quite right because you were acting more like him, and he was acting more like you, and there was something so ferocious in him, something so familiar, that you chose to let it fuck you rather than deal with it. And now it had come out from behind that ferocious mask it'd been wearing, and it wasn't ferocious at all; it was just blond, blue-eyed, worried and scared.  
  
......  
  
And you were sad.  
  
And heartbroken.  
  
......  
  
Helpless.  
  
......  
  
......  
  
  
He'd told no one. Not one person.  
  
Not you; the one person who would buy heaven and earth for him and then pay someone to decorate it and then move it wherever he wanted.  
  
This was what Jon was talking about. No, this was worse…  
  
_“You have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—"  
  
“I know that; I have internet access.”  
  
“As does Justin.”  
  
“He doesn’t really remember anything.”  
  
“His is different from yours.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Yours is directly linked to the incident itself; his is a result of the aftermath.”_  
......  
  
Justin’s fingers moved along the back of your neck, small repetitive strokes, the kind you make when you're not paying attention. He was done talking.  
  
It was your turn.  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_pulled into Nazareth,  
was feelin’ ‘bout half past dead_  
  
Door Number Two.  
  
Madeline was twenty-one when the three of you came upon it; her clothes were tighter, her hair was long and shining, a cold bottle of beer hung from her fingers. The door was bolted shut, so you had no choice but to stare through the rectangular window in the door. “That’s Vic and Leo,” Tate said.  
  
“What are they doing to those guys?” you asked, horrified at the young men they had strapped to a table.  
  
“Looks like ECT to me,” Tate said.  
  
“Maybe Frankenstein-ECT,” you said. Madeline handed her beer to Tate and performed an instant cheer, “E-C-T! Looks like that to me!” “Keep drinking,” Tate said, “You’re too old for that shit now.” The three of you pressed on, not a one of you commenting when the halls became dimmer, and the décor became even older and more discolored. Tate’s uniform was bothering her again; she bitched about it until she stopped in front of a gray door. “This is it,” she said.  
  
“What do you mean?” you asked.  
  
At twenty-five give-or-take, Madeline was absolutely beautiful, “She means that your television is in there.”  
  
“How do you know?” You were stalling things at that point; nothing felt right.  
  
“She can feel it,” Madeline said.  
  
Tate looked away from the door, right into your eyes, “This is Ruth’s room.”  
  
“Who’s Ruth?” you asked.  
  
“She was supposed to be my grandmother,” Madeline said with the sparkle of a hostess on a cruise ship, "But she killed herself."  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_don’t you forget about me_  
  
“How do you feel about Alan being with your mother now?” you asked Harper as she got up and sat in front of the trunk at the foot on her bed, her legs like a pretzel. “May I?” you asked, and she nodded, so you sat down next to her, holding the lid up after she opened the trunk; everything inside—the paper, the fabric, the smell—was old and faded. Her head lowered as she reached in a pulled out a dark wooden jewelry box, and then you let the lid close so she could set it on the top of the trunk. “You’re showing me the locket?” you asked her, but she shook her head, so you just watched her as she carefully opened the box—one of the brass hinges on the back was broken. The box was lined with what was once bright red velvet and the only thing inside was a yellowing Ziploc bag surrounding an old handkerchief. She held the bag close to her face, to her nose, as she opened it, closing her eyes, going somewhere you'd never been, and then her eyes opened again. Her fingers dipped into the bag and pulled the balled handkerchief out; it quickly fell away, revealing a perfume bottle. Harper pressed the handkerchief to her face that time, and before you were ready for it, she was leaning on your shoulder, your arm closing around hers. “This was your mother's,” you said, no inquiry really needed, and she nodded; you felt your hand touching her hair as if it was another part of you altogether; you were two halves of the same whole--half physician, half confidant.  
  
“When she died, there was still some left,” Harper said, and you looked down because you were holding the bottle now. “I wore it at night because my dad went ballistic if he smelled it in the house. I knew he'd throw it away.” “You put it on when you went to bed?” you asked. “For Alan. I put it on, and then I'd read to him, and sometimes...we'd just pretend....” “He liked that?” you asked.  
  
“He was the one who found her in the middle of the night.... Sometimes he called me 'Mom,' and I didn't tell him not to.”  
  
“After your mother passed, you were the caretaker in your family.”  
  
“Alan was never the same after that,” she said, “I mean, you figure a kid witnesses something that horrible, and they become angry and violent and depressed or something, but not Alan.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“He became like the characters in the story books I read to him; he was almost...perversely optimistic.”  
  
“For who?” you asked.  
  
Harper wrapped the bottle back in the cloth, “...For me, I think. I never told anybody, but I kind of liked it when he let me be her.”  
  
“You were fantasizing for him, perhaps he was trying to return the favor?”  
  
“Sometimes I wonder if I made it worse for him...because he never stopped.”  
  
You wrapped your other arm around her, “The mind can be a trap door. It will get you out of anything if you train it to. Alan-- He was inoculating himself, trying to find a way around the pain.”  
  
“You don't think that by pretending to be her that I fucked—?”  
  
“No,” you said, “No, I don't. You were as innocent as he was in all of this. You didn't hurt him; if anything, your efforts, the fact that you were trying so hard, probably gave him hope.” “Hope,” she repeated as if it was a word she’d never heard before. “When did you become aware of how your dad felt about Alan, when did you sense his overwhelming disapproval? Before your mother died or after?” She thought about it and then eventually answered you, “Before.” “How did you know? What do you remember? I mean, you somehow knew that your father didn’t disapprove of you, just Alan, right?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Harper’s next words were measured; her affect had changed, “Because he wanted to go see her.”  
  
“Go see her? You mean visit your mother in the hospital?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
You wanted clarification, “He was unhappy with Alan because he missed his mother?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What about you? Did you miss your mother?”  
  
“Jon.”  
  
“What?”  
  
And then the shame inside her roared past the grief, and she sat told you her tear-stained secret, “I should’ve, but I was afraid to.” The guilt inside her was furious, twisted like hardened taffy around every decision she’d made since her mother died.  
  
“Harper, you’re mad at this little girl inside you for the same reason that your dad was mad at Alan.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You know it’s not rational then, this guilt you feel?”  
  
“Somewhere inside me I do, but I can’t get to it.”  
  
“Why do you think your dad was so angry at Alan for missing your mother?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
You flipped the question around, “You didn’t profess to miss her, so he wasn’t mad at you, correct?”  
  
“Right; I didn’t tell him.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell him?”  
  
“Because it made him mad.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t know why.”  
  
“I think you do,” you told her, “Picture it in your mind. Picture that little girl telling her father that she misses her mother. What’s happening?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing?” You were skeptical of that. You pressed her, “Did she do it? Did she tell him?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And nothing’s happening?”  
  
“No.”  
  
You started to dig with that little girl’s shovel tiny shovel, “How does she feel now that she’s told him?”  
  
“Terrible.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“She’s upset him,” Harper whispered as if her father were in the room.  
  
“Why is he upset?”  
  
“He doesn’t know what to do.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About the little girl. He doesn’t know how to make her happy.”  
  
“Take her to see her mother. Won’t that make her happy?”  
  
Harper’s head shook back her forth in an exaggerated, child-like fashion, “No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because we always have to leave.”  
  
“What does it feel like when it’s time to leave?”  
  
“A big fucking waste of time,” she said in a voice that didn’t belong to that little girl; her eyes were fixed over your shoulder.  
  
“To him or to her?” you asked.  
  
“They just want to go back as soon as they leave,” she said, the little girl long gone.  
  
“Children need their mother; surely, you can empathize with that?”  
  
“No sense in it if she’s never gonna get better. Might as well cut their losses.”  
  
“Whose losses was he trying to cut, Harper?”  
  
And her answer brought her eyes back to your face, “His.”  
  
“Not telling him you missed your mother, caring for Alan the way you did, you were trying to help him cut his losses; do you see that?” She nodded her head and wiped the tears off her face. “You’d absorbed his emotions and were trying to process them for him; children do that in traumatic situations; they need to keep their caregivers happy in order to survive.” She just looked at you like she was at the end of a book with a new lot of blank pages, so you kept going, “And you tried to shield Alan from understanding that. You kept him in the dark for as long as you could.” _(So, so dark he lived underground.)_  
  
“And now I can’t anymore.”  
  
“You don’t _need_ to anymore, Harper. The rouse is over.”  
  
“It’s hard to stop dancing when you can still hear the music, Jon.”  
  
“ _Listen_ to the _song_ , Harper. It’s not a two-step anymore.”  
  
She pulled her hair on top of her head in a make-believe ponytail and then let it fall, “I’m so pissed at him for bailing on me.”  
  
You smiled at her, “You weren’t fooling him, Harper; he loved you, so he played the same game you were playing. He protected you from yourself.”  
  
“I know that, okay?”  
  
“And maybe he died, but he's not the one who abandoned you.”  
  
“I already know that, too,” she said, and then you both laughed because she sounded like someone else you both knew very well.  
  
“When will I get this, Jon? When will I feel like it’s part of me and not just abstract logic?” she asked you.  
  
You rested your hand on her knee; Harper was no stranger to the truth; she could take it even if she couldn't process it at the moment; her denial didn't run as deep as the rest of her posse's—including Daniel's—which was why their friendship was so crucial and why you were there that morning in the first place...  
  
“Listen,” you said, “You're the lucky one in all of this, okay?”  
  
“Why?” she asked, reaching for a tissue.  
  
“Because you're a woman...and because you're a mother.”  
  
“You forgot basket case.”  
  
“Look, one day the little girl inside you is going feel safe enough to grow up, and you’re going to see this whole thing through a mother’s eyes. You're going to see yourself in Amelia and feel your mother in you, and you're going to feel the anger you've buried for years and years and years—“ You stopped because she was starting to cry again.  
  
“Tell...me,” she said.  
  
Your voice got softer, “And you're going to look at Sam, and at the kind of father he is to Amelia and realize what a jack ass—pardon the technical term—your father was to the three of you--"  
  
“Jon,” she pleaded with you, because the truth hurts.  
  
“And then you're going to pick up your camera and your paint brush, and you're going to work it out, Harper, because you're the lucky woman, the lucky mother, and the lucky artist in all of this. You're blessed like Alan was with a therapeutic imagination.” And then your head turned because the cracked door to Harper's bedroom was closing, and you heard a tiny voice, _“But Mommy's bery sad...”_  
  
_“Today is a sad day, remember?”_ Sam asked her.  
  
_“I already knowed that.”_  
  
Harper heard the door as well and started to turn around, “Oh god, did she see me?”  
  
“Sam pulled her back; I think she just heard you crying,” you lied.  
  
“I can't let her see me so upset.”  
  
“Harper, that little girl of yours is no fool. While you were out having dinner last night, she put Daniel to bed, all of her toys, and then asked Richard to read her the book that Alan gave her for Christmas.”  
  
“The rabbit one?”  
  
“Yeah, and she made him read it to her and to the rabbit he gave her. She's working through this, too.”  
  
“Well that explains why she wants to bring the rabbit to the church,” Harper said. “She's already told me twelve times this morning.”  
  
“Yeah, she never really asks, does she?”  
  
“Amelia? Never,” and then she laughed, “Amelia never tries to adapt to the world; she just constantly reminds us that we need to adapt to hers.”  
  
“And do you know why that is?”  
  
“Because her father and every other man she knows spoils her rotten?”  
  
You laughed, “No. It’s because she’s raised in love and not in fear.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes, really. Do you know how many long-term patients I’ve had—over my entire career--that come from homes where they were loved and tolerated and supported and humored?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ten or twenty. Want to know how many I have that were raised in fear or guilt or some other corrosive emotional void?”  
  
“How many?”  
  
“Multiply that by a hundred.”  
  
“Does that count your future patient Sam?” she asked, a smile finally spreading across her face.  
  
“Yes, my dear, that includes Sam.”  
  
*********************  
_lady Madonna,  
children at your feet_  
  
As your conversation with Harper began to settle down, you got to spend a little time with the Harper you’d come to love; the funny, quirky, beautiful woman who somehow made you feel good about being alive while she was alive…  
  
“See,” she said as she leaned against the now closed trunk at the end of her bed, “What was so fucked up about the whole thing was that we—Alan and I—we were closer to Tate than my mother.”  
  
“Tate?”  
  
“My mother’s nurse. She was this big black woman who doted on us when we came to visit my mom. That’s why we wanted to go to the hospital. She spoiled us rotten; she gave us candy; she let us put on gloves and pretend to be nurses and doctors; she hugged us until our eyes bugged out of our heads.” You laughed at the image. “And she adored Alan; he was sort of shy. I wasn’t.”  
  
“Imagine that.” (She was still undressed.)  
  
She straightened her legs and crossed her feet, “When we went in to see my Mom, we always put on a show for her—literally and figuratively. We’d usually perform some popular song and dance around like idiots, and then we’d ‘help’ Tate take care of my mother and tell her made up stories about things we did. We never told her anything bad.”  
  
“Where was your dad?”  
  
“He never came in with us. He would sit in the car in the car in the parking lot even when it was ninety-five degrees outside and smoke.”  
  
“In a car with pleather seats, no doubt.”  
  
“Yeah, and we lived in Georgia. Anyway, My mom would usually doze off about halfway through our hour with her, and then we’d play with Tate. We told her everything. She let us run wild in that place. There was a section of the psych ward that wasn’t used for patients, and she let us run and slide down the hall in our socks, and we’d have races, and she’d tell me that sometimes I had to let Alley win.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Yeah, because he and Tate got so excited when he won. It was better than when I won. She’d wink at me when she was hugging him. I couldn’t wink for the longest time, so I’d just blink like this,” and then she demonstrated her initial attempts at winking, blinking both eyes with a really goofy expression on her face, and you cracked up. “It’s just, I’m going to miss him so much; Alan was more to me than a brother—"  
  
_Bingo! Stick foot in door!_  
  
“Yes, he was, for you and for Daniel.”  
  
“Your eyes just got really big,” she told you.  
  
“What else was he?” you quizzed her.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Ordinarily, you’d take the long way to the answer, but you hourglass was running low, so you didn’t drag it out. “Trauma changes people, right? You said earlier about how Alan was after your mother died.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I often think of it like this: when we’re born we have a perfectly smooth, endless row in front of us, and as we live our lives, shit happens and the road ends up with potholes and sections of it are completely destroyed and sometimes those sections are immediately repaired by the right people, sometimes they never are, and sometimes bridges or detours are built to get over or around them.”  
  
“Is there a speed limit on this road?”  
  
You laughed, “There probably should be. Some people refuse to obey the rules of the road and end up running into a ditch; some people learn to plan ahead knowing the way they drive and start investing in asphalt.”  
  
“God, I need a shit load of that.”  
  
“Caring for Alan was a detour off your road where you connected with Daniel on his. The first hundred miles of your road feel very familiar to him, and you both ran off your own roads for the same reason.”  
  
“And now the reason is gone.”  
  
“Yeah, and his car is a total piece of shit right now.”  
  
“I can give him a ride?”  
  
“You could, but if you do, he won’t reap the benefits of finding his own way back, and he’ll just run off the road again, and who will be there then?”  
  
“Can’t you just tail him in your car?”  
  
“This is where Amelia gets her stubborn streak, right?”  
  
“I’m just kidding; I hate it, but I get it.” You got up to leave, and as she was walking to the bedroom door with you, she stopped you, a hand on your shoulder, “Wait, is this…. Where’s Justin’s car in all of this?”  
  
“About five hundred miles back, upside-down in a twelve-car pile up.”  
  
“Oh my god. How the fuck is he supposed to get out of that?”  
  
“Brian owns a towing company; it just didn’t occur to him to publish the number nor did it occur to Justin to ask.”  
  
“Whoa.”  
  
“That pretty much sums it up.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_I know where you hide  
alone in your car  
know all of the things  
that make you who you are_  
  
From the very first night you met Justin, your relationship with him has relied on the sense of touch more than any of the other four, and though you’d almost been burned at the stake for that hundreds of times, it was a blessing on mornings like that one because it had the ability to kick things out of the way when you really needed to get to him. It leveled the playing field between you—anyone could see, hear, taste, or even smell the difference between the two of you if blindfolded, but your sense of touch was unaffected by age or wealth or circumstances. And it was something that the two of you desperately needed in your lives, and in retrospect, as you thought about the years you’d spent without him, about what made those years so difficult, you realized that it was probably that connection that generated the glue that permanently sealed your relationship. And when your relationship was in trouble, when it was lost at sea and taking in water, it was that thread you held on to, and the one you tossed out to him when he was drifting too far away.  
  
That moment on that morning, it was pulling both of you to shore, very slowly as if perhaps picking up speedy might heighten the chance of someone falling overboard, and the more you entertained that metaphor, the more you realized that the first decade of your relationship with Justin had really just been a constant rerun of _Gilligan’s Island._  
  
(And you were Ginger.)  
  
But that day, you were getting off the island—finally.  
  
“Don’t stop,” he whispered in your ear as you fucked him, “I love you.”  
  
“If you want me to last, you’ll be quiet,” you admonished him, and he was about to be a smart ass and say something else, but you cut him off by keeping his mouth occupied, closing your eyes when he moaned underneath you, letting yourself get lost in the raw pleasure of being inside him. You wanted to keep it going so you made yourself feel your lips as you kissed him, your shoulders where he was holding onto you; you breathed every last ounce of him into your lungs. You feasted on the sensation of being able to conquer him because he’s physically smaller than you, you watched your hand skim the outline of his hip and then press on the back of his thigh. His eyes opened for a second when your hand slipped in between you, when you touched him; he was wet.  
  
_“Brian.”_  
  
You watched his eyes blink, felt his whole body tense up. “Relax,” you requested, but his hands twined tighter in your hair. Your finger smoothed across the head of his cock, and then he watched in this sweet desperate state as you slid that same finger in your mouth, and then your eyes moved to the right and his followed yours and you said, “Hand me that,” and he reached for the lube, and when you nodded your head, he opened it and put some on your outstretched fingers, closed it, and threw it back on the mattress, and then you wrapped your left arm underneath him a little more and leaned down and said, “Hold still for me.”  
  
He was still and wound tight as you pulled out and then slid your fingers inside him, and you watched his face as you readied to enter him again, sliding in alongside your fingers, and you hovered above him, keeping your weight off of him until you felt him accepting you, and when you let yourself go, the force of your body, the moment, the need inside him grabbed you and held on, leaving only your hips free, and you fucked him so hard, he started half-panting, half-hissing in your ear, _“Uh…god….oh….god…,”_ and you could feel his body trying to hold you back a little, and you hadn’t felt that in so long….  
  
…that real sense memory of how young and sweet and daring and trusting he was…  
  
…and he came in a shudder that made you freeze for a second, and the second you tried to move, it was over for you, too, and you could feel it, all of it, and it was so wickedly warm; and his hands had torn through your hair and his nails had dug trenches into your upper back.  
  
He lay exhausted in the sheets when all was said and done, and you lay on his torso, licking his stomach clean.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, twirling your hair in his fingers.  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
“I meant for listening to me earlier, for letting me get all of that out.”  
  
“I knew what you meant.”  
  
“Come here,” he said so you stopped what you were doing and responded to the summons, lying next to him on your pillow.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you know why I love you?”  
  
“I guess so,” you said. “I mean I’m obscenely rich and smokin’ hot.”  
  
He laughed (way too much) and scooted closer to you, “I love you because you’re the purest person I know. Everything about you is pure—the way you think, the way you work, the ideas you have, the way you look, the way you love me. Every emotion you have is so distilled. They never change or falter or fade.”  
  
“Um, okay; thanks.”  
  
He leaned forward to kiss you; his hand on your face, but then he stopped, “Brian, you’re blushing.” You put your head under your pillow, and he pulled the pillow away, “Don’t hide. What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“A lot. Haven’t you been paying attention lately?”  
  
“Listen to me, okay?”  
  
“Give me back my pillow.”  
  
“Here,” he said, and you tucked it back under your head as he continued, “What I mean is: your emotions, it’s like they all exist in their own little worlds, like little satellite offices of your heart—"  
  
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you sound like a fucking lesbian that seriously needs to douche.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up. I can see all of them; I could see all of them the night I met you; I could see the ones you couldn’t see. They were there just waiting to be annexed into headquarters. I knew that you could only tolerate one at a time back then.”  
  
You smiled at him, mostly just because he’s such an optimistic little douche-bag sometimes. “But it’s different now,” you said.  
  
“I know it is,” he admitted, “And that’s really weird for me.”  
  
“You don’t like it?”  
  
“I just have to re-program myself. I spent years trying to take my emotions out of everything we did; it’s weird to resist that temptation now.”  
  
“I can feel them in my fingertips,” you confessed to him, attacking him with your hand, “I can feel them when I touch you.”  
  
“Funny,” he said, “That’s where I met them.”

  
*********************

**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_the hook brings you back_  
  
You were pumped full of adrenaline by the time you made it made it back to Daniel’s with both yours and Richard’s clothes for the funeral, and you forced your heart to stop pounding before you went back inside. You hung your suit bags on the coat rack in the hallway and walked into the kitchen where you could smell the breakfast Richard had cooked; he and Daniel—whose back was to you--were sitting at the kitchen table; Richard’s arm was stretched across the table resting on Daniel’s forearm, and he smiled at you when he saw you in the doorway. You smiled back. He spoke to Daniel, not to you, “Dan, I have to go get ready. Jon’s back, okay?” He nodded in slow motion. Richard got up from the table and walked into the hallway, so you followed him, watching his face as he unzipped his suit bag and asked you meaningless questions about what you’d brought him. You could tell by the tone of his voice that he was glad you were back; you didn’t need to ask him how it went.  
  
“Just take all of it upstairs," you told him. “I’ll get ready after you’re done.”  
  
“Look, you’re going to have to help him.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“I’m serious, every step of the way.”  
  
_“I will.”_  
  
When you walked back into the kitchen, Daniel was sitting right where you’d left him; he hadn’t moved. You put your hand on his back, “Dan—"  
  
His body sagged as he began to cry.  
  
……  
  
You sat down beside him as the grief bled out of him and for once in your life you didn’t berate, analyze, or taunt him as he went through it. By the time you heard Richard’s shoes thumping above your heads, he had dissolved into the Daniel he was before you met him, the one you’d heard about but never actually known. You listened as Richard descended the stairs, looked up as he stood in the opposite kitchen door so he could see your face. He mouthed the words, “I’m leaving,” and you nodded your head, but then he must’ve really looked at your face because he walked into the kitchen, pulled up a chair and sat down next to the two of you in his black Sears suit and scolded you, “How is he going to get through today if you can’t?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” you said.  
  
“It’s my fault,” said Dan. “He’s crying because I’m crying.”  
  
“Honestly, Dan,” Richard said, “That’s your fault, too?”  
  
“Just go,” you told him, “It’s a fag thing; you wouldn’t understand.”  
  
Richard raised his eyebrow at you, “If this was any other morning, I’d beat your ass for saying that to me.”  
  
“I know,” you said, “That’s why I said it today.” Daniel leaned back in his chair to get out of the conversation and Richard leaned forward to kiss you good-bye. It was short and sweet, and when it ended you told him, “You can still beat my ass later if you want.”  
  
“Both of you, stop it. That’s enough," Dan said, "I'm gonna puke."  
  
……  
  
And then Richard left the two of you alone in that kitchen. Daniel began to pull himself back together and after he’d exhausted the box of tissues in front of him, he looked at you, his face red and swollen, and said, “God, he smells good.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“That suit, though—"  
  
“Sears.”  
  
“Oh god, no.”  
  
“He hemmed the pants himself,” you confessed.  
  
Daniel looked mortified, “What?”  
  
“Turns out he has a sewing machine; got it the same place he got the pants.”  
  
“And he actually knows how to use it?”  
  
“He thinks he does. You know how it goes; he took Home Ec in high school.”  
  
“Well, who didn’t? You need to get rid of that thing while he’s asleep or something.”  
  
“I know. He mended one of my shirts the other day without even asking me, and the thread he used was a _blend._ ”  
  
The urgency of the situation overtook Daniel, “Do you want me to talk to him?”  
  
“No, I’ll handle it; I just have to find the right time, but thanks for the offer. What’d you guys have for breakfast?” you asked him because the aroma was making you hungry.  
  
“He made me some waffles.” And when you made a _shame on you_ face at him, he added, “And there aren’t any left.”  
  
Of course there weren’t.  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_would you know my name if I saw you in Heaven?_  
  
“You know, when you die, you pretty much figure you ain’t gonna have to go back to your old job,” Tate told the gray door. “This is bullshit.”  
  
Madeline put her palm on the door and within a few seconds, her entire affect changed. “I’m gonna be sick,” she said, clutching her stomach.  
  
“You better not be pregnant,” Tate said, “’Cause my patience is burnt slap up right now.”  
  
“It’s not in me; it’s in the room. It feels horrible.”  
  
“Then take your hand off,” you told her as you tried to remove it, but it wouldn’t budge. You put your hand on the door. “Do you feel anything?” Tate asked you. “No,” you replied, “Just a door.” Tate was beyond thrilled with your answer, “That’s just great,” and then she directed Madeline, “See if the door will open, Maddie,” so Madeline reached down and turned the handle and sure enough, it popped right open. You hung back on purpose, standing right behind Madeline as Tate got in front of both of you. The woman Tate spoke of—Ruth—was curled up on a hospital bed with another man—  
  
_“He’s my uncle,”_ Madeline whispered. _“He brought me here.”_  
  
The woman’s face was red and swollen from crying, and she looked away as Tate approached the bed. There was another man, a much older, much larger man passed out in the chair by the window. “What’s in your mouth, Ruth?” Tate asked.  
  
“Uh-lives,” she said, and then she swallowed. You heard a wretched sound and turned around and Madeline was throwing them up in the corner. “Why in hell did you eat those damn things?” Tate scolded her. “He gave them to me,” Ruth said, pointing at the giant lump of a man in the corner. She sounded like a child. Tate was angry, but her mood changed immediately when she sat down in a old plastic sea green chair by the bed and spoke with the man Ruth was holding onto, “How ya doing, Alley?”  
  
“I only ate two of them,” he confessed, and Madeline coughed and threw up again.  
  
“Jack gave you some, too?” Tate asked him.  
  
“He said I could have some.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“She ate too many; she won’t let go of me,” he confided in Tate, and then his eyes glanced up at the television mounted in the corner. Your eyes followed his, and then you saw the images of him being taunted and harassed and beaten to death and rescued over and over and over in some kind of insane loop. The man who kept running outside of his house and down the brick steps, he looked just like you, even when he was covered in dirt and screaming for help. Tate looked at you, “Turn it off.”  
  
“Is that my son?”  
  
“Please just turn it off for right now.”  
  
You did as she requested, and then watched as she and the instantly recovering Madeline coaxed Ruth out of the bed. “Harper, you look so pretty,” Ruth said. “This isn’t Harper, Ruthie. This is your over-grown granddaughter, Madeline.”  
  
“I really am insane,” Ruth said as she stared at Maddie. “We all are at this point,” Tate said. “Let’s go see if the cafeteria is still here.” You watched as both women escorted Ruth out of the room. Alone with the man in the bed and the man in the chair, you sat down next to the former and introduced yourself, “You’re Alan, right?”  
  
He perked up a little, “Yeah, who are you?”  
  
“I’m Danny.”  
  
“You look just like him,” Alan said.  
  
“You knew him, my son?”  
  
Alan sat up a little and smiled at you, but before he could say anything else, the door flew open and Madeline came running back in. She grabbed the remote out of your hand and said, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” and then she cleared her throat—you cringed in case she was going to puke again, but it was a false alarm—she continued, “Um, this remote activates,” and then she glanced all around the room, “Um, I guess just this television. There may be things that you want to see and things that you don’t want to see… Alan, shit, what comes next?”  
  
“’But regardless,’” he prompted her.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, okay. But regardless, you will only see what you need to see.” And then she handed it back to you and added, “So, um, have fun; see ya!” and then she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.  
  
“She’s just like my sister,” Alan said with a sheepish smile on his face. “God, they grow up so fast, don’t they?”  
  
“She’s certainly a piece of work.” And then you glanced over to the old man passed out in the chair, “May I ask who that is?”  
  
“That’s Jack. He’s been here forever. He works in the kitchen and fills orders.”  
  
“Orders?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s like that movie; he sees dead people—except only for lunch and dinner,” he said and then he laughed. You didn’t know what he was talking about, but while he was laughing, the television had come on, and Alan’s mood had changed. He lay back in the hospital bed and asked you for the blanket that was bunched up at the end of the bed. “Are you okay?” you asked him as you covered him up. “I’m tired of watching my murder,” he said turning away from the screen. “I’ve watched it over and over and over, and I just need to fucking die already.”  
  
You sat down in the chair next to Alan’s bed and stared at the screen, but there was no murder taking place anymore, just the last few minutes of a funeral—yours—and a boy holding his mother’s hand. He wasn’t crying, but she was. And then he was back at home in his room with his door locked putting a stack of copies of the funeral program in a box under his bed. There were articles in the box about your death, your obituary, and then you saw your wallet. You watched in silence as he took everything out—your driver’s license, your business and credit cards, your social security and library card, twenty-three dollars in cash, a coupon for something. He read the expiration date and threw it the trash. He gathered your credit cards and your social security card and left his room in search of Emma who was crying in the kitchen. “Here,” he said, “These are important.” She thanked him, and he walked away, back to his room, locking himself back in. No tears as he put everything back in your wallet, no tears when he was trying to stuff his student ID into a pocket and realized that the picture you carried of him as an infant was blocking it. He took it out and stared at it; it was just two of you sitting in your chair in the den; he was sound asleep in your arms; it was Christmas in the faded photo, but you could still see some of the lights on the tree. He stuffed it back where he found it and slid his ID in front of your driver’s license. Then he emptied the remaining contents of his wallet into yours and threw his wallet in the garbage, putting yours on the table next to his bed. He and Emma ate dinner delivered by the neighbors at six thirty; they barely spoke except to comment on the food. “None of our neighbors can cook worth a damn,” he said, and Emma didn’t scold him for using profanity, she just nodded her head, “I know; it’s so true.” They watched game shows after dinner; he jotted the answers down on a steno pad he always kept lodged in the sofa. Then he got up to take bath—at his usual time in his usual way; Emma retired to her room like she always did. You watched as he came out of the bathroom in his pajamas and walked into the den where you would’ve been sitting and he just stood there next to what was your chair. He put his hand on the arm rest for a few seconds, and then turned around and walked down the hall to his room. He locked the door and got into bed, holding your wallet under his pillow.  
  
He cried for an hour, barely making a sound.  
  
You watched as he went to school the next day with your way too big wallet sticking out of the back of his pants. He lost it by lunchtime, and spent the rest of the day checking the school’s lost and found every thirty minutes; his heart raced for hours; you could feel it. By the final bell, he realized a much older boy had found it in the hallway; Daniel quietly negotiated with him, ultimately giving up the cash to get it back, his heart pounding like a trombone out for vengeance during the entire transaction. When he got home from school, your chair was gone. Emma had given it away. He did his homework in his room instead of at the kitchen table. When he got to the subjects he struggled with, the ones he normally asked you to help him with, he took your picture out of his wallet and sat it in front of his books. When his Spanish homework began to frustrate him, he looked up at your picture and asked you very politely, “I need your help, please.”  
  
You said nothing.  
  
He tried one last time, “Necesito su ayuda, por favor.”  
  
Nada.  
  
********************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_don’t know where I’m going  
but I sure know where I’ve been_  
  
It was almost sunny outside that Friday morning when you and Justin walked out of The Regency. Hand-in-hand, you decided to walk toward the church; it was your idea, thinking that it might help calm Justin a little; he was nervous, so much so that you had to blow him in the shower to get him to agree to go with you. It felt like a small miracle that he’d actually made it down to the lobby.  
  
Minutes earlier, he’d made it clear as the two of you dressed that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to go as much as it was that he just couldn’t see himself there, and that was scaring him because he didn’t know why he couldn’t get past that in his mind, and once you were ready to go, you sat on the toilet in the bathroom while he was fucking with his hair and made him stay on the subject. “You don’t need to worry about anything but getting in the elevator right now. That’s all.”  
  
“It’s like my mind only goes so far and then it cuts off,” he told you. “It’s freaking me out.”  
  
“Jon gave me some Xanax yesterday. Do you want some?”  
  
“Yeah, maybe. “ You lit a cigarette, handed it to him, and then went and got the medicine. He met you out in the suite and sat on the sofa where he swallowed the pill. You sat down beside him, “I had days like this after you got hurt. What happened to Alan, it’s triggering some shit inside you or something.”  
  
“What did you do?” he asked you.  
  
“I drank and got mad and drank some more.”  
  
“Yeah, great plan,” he said, exhaling his smoke.  
  
“We’re just gonna take it one step at a time, okay?”  
  
He leaned forward and dunked his cigarette in his water glass; his hand was shaking. You started to really believe that Jon was right; the only thing Justin had done with that hand that morning was brush his teeth and wash his hair. “You know, before last night, I was convinced that I could never talk to you about this shit. I really felt like I was alone with this horror I can’t even remember,” he said, half-staring out the window.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And if I couldn’t talk to you, who the hell was I gonna talk to because there’s no one else, you know?” You kept your eyes on his face as the two of you talked; you didn’t want him to see you noticed his hand; he was pulling it back against him like he used to do so long ago.  
  
“I know, but you can talk to me. What’s got you wound so tight about this?”  
  
He rested his arm on the back of the sofa and then rested his chin on his arm; he was staring outside when he told you, “I mean, okay, so we go to the funeral, then the funeral’s over, and then what? We go back home; you go back to work, and I go back to what?” You reached over and put your hand on his arm. “I don’t want to be alone in that big house with this shit in my head anymore. I can’t even get it on a fucking canvas, Brian.”  
  
“You need to talk to somebody.”  
  
“And it only took six years in New York hanging out with a shrink for someone else to tell me that. God, I’m a fucking genius, aren’t I?”  
  
You moved closer to him, “You wanna play that game? Look how long it took me. I’m fucking forty, Justin. You don’t get that prize, sorry.”  
  
“Yeah, but I want it,” he said.  
  
“You’re pissed; I know. And I don’t blame you.”  
  
“You don’t?” he asked you, and the sincerity behind his question pulled at something inside you.  
  
“No, I don’t. You’re lucky to be alive and functioning after what he did to you.”  
  
The expression on his face was one of genuine relief, and that was the moment that you realized the true cost of the age difference in your relationship, and that was the moment that you saw the ridiculous irony in the choices you’d forced upon him. Your cavalier and brazen approach to your lifestyle, your single-minded determination to be accepted or be damned by him and the world had left no room for him to be accepted for who he was or who he might be becoming. And every time he tried to point that out to you, you’d done nothing but try to steer him back to your side of the road or pretend he didn’t exist or rage against what his request represented. And then when you forced yourself to go back in time and count the number of people who were _really_ there for him after he came out--loud and proud, thanks to you, and _really_ there for him after he was almost killed, you saw yourself holding the lion's share of influence in his life and not always deserving of it. And when you realized that he was still sitting across from you, and there was a band on his finger at that point, you wanted him to know, “You have a right to be angry about what Chris did to you. You have a right to be angry at me. You don’t have to banish yourself to another city and paint spooky pictures; get fucking pissed. Throw some shit, punch me upside the head. It’s okay.”  
  
“You’re not the person I want to punch upside the head. The guy I want to punch is dead.”  
  
“Is that what’s wrong?” you asked him. “You’re trapped in a loop trying to kill a dead man?”  
  
“What do you do when what you need to do has already been done by somebody or something else?” he asked you, and you thought about your father, about fearing him, about hating him, about trying not to become him.  
  
“Maybe the first thing you do is accept it,” you said.  
  
“I don’t know how to do that.”  
  
“I think you just did it,” you told him.  
  
“How can it be so plain and simple when it feels so fucking impossible?”  
  
“You’re the one who shacked up with a shrink, you tell me.”  
  
“God, I must be dense or something.”  
  
“No, you’re just used to feeling afraid of it and angry at it, and letting that go isn’t easy.”  
  
“You’re, like, so mature now that it’s kind of annoying,” he complained.  
  
“It reminds me of when I first met you, and you would lie in bed after we fucked and sketch yourself to sleep, remember?”  
  
“Yeah, before my hand was fucked up.”  
  
“That’s not what this is about; forget about that for a minute. You would sketch, and I would lie next to you and just watch and try to figure out what you were sketching before you were finished, remember?”  
  
He smiled; it was a nice memory for him. “Yeah.”  
  
“Sometimes we made a game out of it, remember? If I figured it out—"  
  
“You made me rim you.”  
  
“You needed the practice.” He smacked your chest because that was a boldface lie; you grabbed his hand and held it. _“Anyway,_ your sketches were always really small because you didn’t want me to guess correctly, remember?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“But they were also some of the best ones you’ve ever done. Nothing you’d ever sell or display, but they were really good and you loved them, right?”  
  
“Honestly? I loved _you._ ”  
  
You reached for him, and he slid over and lay against your shoulder, “The point I’m making is that sometimes it’s not the ten thousand dollar canvas in a museum that’s the answer, sometimes it’s the teeny tiny pencil sketch that you’ve forgotten about. Sometimes it’s something so simple you overlook it.”  
  
Your analogy, though poignant, didn’t linger too long with him. “I fell in love with you playing that game.”  
  
“I fell in love with you when you finally learned how to rim me,” you teased him.  
  
"I can't believe you just admitted that you're forty."  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_time grabs you by the wrist  
directs you where to go_  
  
After watching your young son struggle without you, you wanted to get up and leave, try to find your way back to your old office, to where everything had been far less complicated and where you couldn’t attribute the ache in your chest to anything other than your heart condition, but the scene on the television was changing fast and moving in and out of focus. Years flew by like lightning and then time began to crawl again as you watched your teenage son sit at the stop sign at the end of your street, look both ways, turn right, and then zoom off to college. You saw him learning his way around, dating a girl or two; you saw him wandering into a bookstore one Friday night and coming home with more than a book. There were no more girls after that, just bookstore after bookstore. Graduation came; you saw him in the stands with an impatient look on his face; you saw him in med school studying with a blond-haired guy who kept making jokes in the library until the wee hours of the morning. A few years later, you watched as he turned down an offer to work at the hospital you’d dropped dead in; you saw him working emergency rooms in New York City, treating the craziest of them all night, night after night. You saw him make a name for himself as he tried to heal those who didn’t have one. You saw him join a private practice and watched a guy hang his name on a door.  
  
You saw him all over New York City frequenting restaurants and galleries and museums and the theater and markets that imported everything; you saw him antiquing with the blond guy in an antique car; you saw him get his hair cut every four weeks to the day, his suits custom made; his brownstone cleaned once a week and twice during the holidays. You saw him throw dinner parties to rave reviews; you saw waiters linger afterward for other reasons. You saw the checks he wrote to charity after charity after charity with no hesitation. He never passed anyone on the street without helping them out.  
  
“He’s done well for himself,” you said to Alan.  
  
“He does well for everybody,” Alan said, and the tone in his voice was haunting and strange, and that’s when the picture on the TV set turned grainy like a bad security camera in a convenience store.  
  
*********************  
_loose end, loose end, cut, cut_  
  
And once again, there was Daniel flying down the front steps of his home trying to get to Alan all bloody and beaten, but the picture was black and white and there was no sound, so you turned and looked at Alan and said, “What’s going on?” But Alan was unresponsive. You shook him a little, but he didn’t move. “I hope you’re just asleep,” you said, and you turned back to the television…  
  
The picture was of such poor quality that you really had to concentrate to make everything out. There were people moving in and out of your son’s home; there were easels and canvases and furniture and boxes. There were smiling faces, and finally—FINALLY--a beautiful girl in your son’s life. She looked just like Madeline. “Who’s that girl?” you asked and your answer to that question came from a girl.  
  
Or rather, from someone who’d once been a girl because Alan was gone.  
  
The hospital room and the sleeping man were gone.  
  
The tiny grainy television was gone, replaced by a giant wall of nine, all grainy and hard to make out.  
  
You were sitting in your favorite chair in your living room, and Emma was on the sofa now next to your chair, and _Wheel of Fortune_ began to play on the center TV in clear, vibrant color and the letters began to turn one by one:  
  
  
  
And there you sat, furious that she was even there, that she would waste your fucking time, and the letters turned as you answered her:  
  
  
  
And the conversation continued:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The letters began to fade at that point, so you turned and looked at your late-wife, and she was struggling; she didn’t want to tell you, but she finally found the strength, and the letters became brighter and started turning again:  
  
  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
_and put the load right on me_  
  
“Daniel, who's folding your socks?” you asked him as you tried to find a matching black pair in his drawer.  
  
“Me and shut up about it.”  
  
“You’re color blind; I swear. There isn’t one black or brown or navy sock in here that’s matched up correctly.”  
  
“I want my new black shoes,” he said from his perch by the window.  
  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
  
You brought him two matching socks and his shoes and then got in the shower yourself, the quickest one on record, because it always took longer to get ready at Daniel’s; his dressing area was not intuitively designed in your opinion. When you emerged looking not a day over thirty-four, Daniel was right where you left him, shoes and socks on by that time, looking tired and worn out in his new chair. “Where are your new glasses?” you asked him as you sat on the ottoman in front of him. “In my briefcase, I think.” So that meant they were downstairs. “You feel ready to do this?” you asked him.  
  
“No.” You waited a few seconds, knowing that something was probably coming after that, “I should call Harper before we go.”  
  
“I saw her this morning.”  
  
“You did?” He seemed confused.  
  
“Yeah, that’s where I was.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because…. I just needed to see for myself, how she was doing.”  
  
He seemed miffed at first, but it passed quickly, and you saw something else come through, something too heavy to get him out of that chair. “Let’s see, Brian yesterday, Justin last night, and Harper this morning; I’m clearly your next appointment.”  
  
“No, you’re not.” He rolled his eyes at the window. “You’re my _friend.”_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Dan.”  
  
……  
  
“You have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve heard you say that?” he asked you.  
  
“Way too long?”  
  
“That’s the understatement of the century.”  
  
……  
  
“Can you just let me have a few minutes to myself?” he asked you. “Just wait for me downstairs?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_because they only remember too well_  
  
You closed the door to your bedroom once you were all alone, took a key out of your dresser, and unlocked the bottom drawer of your night stand next to the window. You removed a manila folder that was laying on top, closed the drawer, and locked it again, and then you sat back in your new chair by the window with a pen in your hand.  
  
The outside of the folder was innocent enough until you looked at the handwritten label: _Harper, Alan_  
  
You opened the folder and reorganized the handwritten sheets inside so that you were looking at the oldest one first, and then you flipped through them in totality for the first time in your life. The dates and times, you could see each of them in your mind as you read, skimming the highlights with the posture and affect you’d used hundreds of times in your office when you were trying to get up to speed on a referral…  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_hey Mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?_  
  
The wheel-o-chit-chat was over because the TV in the top left corner, the picture began to colorize. You recognized Alan immediately even though he was younger, and you saw the very pretty girl again and the center screen colorized and the words changed:  
  
  
  
And then faded to black and white again.  
  
They were both in an art studio with another young man, and Alan was sitting still—posing it looked like—and Harper and—  
  
  
  
They were both drawing him and smiling and laughing, and Alan kept sitting in these ridiculous poses, and they were throwing chalk at him, and then the door opened, and you recognized your son seconds before he got beamed in the forehead with a piece of chalk. And then Alan was laughing, and your son was laughing, and then Daniel sat on the sofa, and Alan took Justin’s place and started to draw him, and Harper and Justin ended up leaving, and that left Alan and your son alone, and when Alan said he was finished, Daniel got up and walked over to Alan’s easel and his mouth fell open at what he saw. Alan hadn't drawn Daniel; he'd drawn the _Mona Lisa,_ only with his sister's face, and he's done it from memory. _"Holy shit,"_ your son said, his fingers propping up his chin.  
  
The picture froze right there, and the next one came on even brighter as they ate dinner together—  
  
  
  
  
  
And then you could feel yourself inside your son, like you were looking through his eyes at this young man sitting across the table, and you could feel a reluctance in Alan that you wanted to end, a wall that you wanted to topple, and you and Daniel took a walk with him after dinner because it was a nice night, and you sat perched in Daniel’s heart as he talked to him and in his head as he listened--  
  
  
  
And maybe you weren’t a doctor, but you’d run a hospital and spent enough time with every make and model to know what he was doing, and their conversation though therapeutic was also a means to an end; your son wasn’t building a bridge to nowhere, and as they walked and talked, Daniel’s consciousness and wisdom filtered through you like smoke in your lungs:  
  
_Schizophrenia? Hereditary? does not present? rule out Schizoaffective  
normal affect, no evidence of true paranoia/hallucinations  
the jiggling sound in his pockets—meds, a ton of them  
facial expressions are delayed and not tied to his emotions; mimicking behavior=comfort  
morphing speech patters, a la carte emotions, overly interested in pleasing--not impressing--authority figures._  
  
And then you watched as they walked back to Daniel’s place, and Harper and Justin were back, and Alan left, and then Justin left, and he and Harper sat on his bed and talked and talked and talked about Alan, and then that screen froze right there, and the rest of the televisions came on at once, some with pure white screens, sound playing on only one at a time, and it changed constantly forcing you to jump from scene to scene. Your eyeballs felt like they had springs behind him.  
  
It was pure insanity as…  
  
Alan showed up unexpectedly at Daniel’s one morning. Daniel cancelled his schedule. He went with Alan to a free clinic. There was counseling with an attractive black woman who Alan kept saying looked like Tate—which would’ve only been remotely true if Tate had been a super-model. There was a sheet of paper in Alan’s hand afterward, a calendar. _“You’re going to taper off,_ ” Daniel kept saying over and over.  
  
On another screen there was an altercation that occurred at a later time in a tunnel; Alan was beaten up, kicked hard in the stomach, because his pockets were empty.  
  
On another, Daniel was anxious, flipping through his day planner, checking a lunar calendar, making a call to a guy that looked like Sylvester Stallone. _“Can you see if you can find him? It’s been three months.”_  
  
  
  
On the screen where Alan was kicked in the stomach for having empty pockets, Zeek delivers him to your son before sun up, snatches him the second he emerges from a subway tunnel. _“Where the fuck have you been?”_ Daniel gets a phone call before six a.m. that morning that Alan’s on his way; he cancels his morning and waits. Big Zeek waits on the steps while Alan is inside your son’s house like he’s afraid Alan might try to escape.  
  
Daniel stands in the kitchen that morning and knows he’s being lied to. _“I called the clinic, Alan. You’re not going to your appointments. You’re just gonna take Haldol and Thorazine for the rest of your life for no reason?”  
  
“I’m not taking it.”  
  
“I can tell by looking at you that you’re taking it.”  
  
“You can look at my blood; it’s not in me.”_  
  
Zeek has come inside; when he speaks, he startles Daniel from behind, _“He’s faking it; Aren’t you Al?”_ Alan stares at the floor. _“Because they’re beating the shit out of you if you don’t bring it, right?”  
  
“It’s like money,”_ Alan says. _“That’s all.”  
  
“You can live here,”_ Daniel says. _“I want to help you.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Yes, you can. I want you to get help and get better.”  
  
“If I did that, they’d kill me.”_  
  
Daniel’s pissed and frustrated; you can feel it, and you expect him to do what he used to do—lock himself in his room and start cutting things out to the wee hours of the morning, but he doesn’t. He gets mad and you can feel it in his stomach, and you can hear it in his voice, _“So your solution to this is to pretend to be schizophrenic so that people will give you free meds that you don’t fucking need, so that you can give them to a bunch of drug addicts and make them sicker so you can be left alone?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“Alan, that is stupid, dangerous, and irresponsible.”  
  
“To each their own, doc,"_ Zeek says and then he tells Alan to get the fuck out of there.  
  
……  
  
Seven months pass and Alan is long gone and Daniel never tells Harper what happened. On yet another screen, he tells the blond guy—  
  
  
  
He tells Jonathon about this over and over and over. Jonathon tells him to give it a rest.  
  
He won’t and he doesn’t.  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_will not let you go  
let me go  
will not let you go  
let me go _  
  
There’s a dinner one night; it’s starts out as a dinner for one, just you by yourself in your home, but there’s a knock on the door. It’s Alan. He looks like shit. You think he’s looking for Harper, but no, he’s looking for Zeek. You tell him that as far you knew, Zeek moved out of the city to go work with his brother or something. Alan gets an odd look on his face. You offer him dinner; he declines. You offer him a drink; he declines. He asks if he can use your bathroom; you agree.  
  
He doesn’t come out for an hour.  
  
You can hear water running, the shower, and he doesn’t answer when you knock on the door. You pick the lock and pop the door open. He’s sitting in the tub, fully clothed, crying as the water—warm water—falls all over him.  
  
……  
  
He won’t stop crying, and when you turn off the water, it gets even worse. He’s hysterical, so you give him a Valium and a glass of water and sit with him and watch until he starts to relax…  
……  
  
Alan’s head fell backward in the tub, and he caught it before it smacked the porcelain, and you reached inside the tub and grabbed his wrist and took his pulse out of habit. “Am I dead?” he asked you. “Hardly,” you replied. He rolled onto his side and appeared to be falling asleep. “This probably isn’t the most comfortable spot to nap in,” you pointed out. “We don’t have a bathtub downstairs,” he said. His hand curled over the side of the tub, steadying himself. “What would you do if you did have one?” you asked him. He yawned, “I would sit in it and read.”  
  
“So there’s hot and cold water running downstairs, then?”  
  
His eyes opened wide and he rolled his head up a little so he could look you straight in the face, “I’m not going to put any water in it.”  
  
And then you watched as he curled into a fetal position and fell sound asleep. You covered him up with a blanket, cranked up the heat in the bathroom a little and found some clothes for him to wear when he woke up. When he awoke, he was calm at first, peeling off his clothes, taking a real shower, changing into clean ones, but when you suggested to him that he wait for his dirty ones to wash and dry, he became very agitated. It was after noon, he said; he’d missed his most important stops. “When do you think you’ll come back to get your clothes?” you asked him in an effort to get some sort of commitment from him, but he wouldn’t say, so you pushed a little harder, “You were extremely upset earlier; I’d really like to understand why.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Has that happened before?”  
  
“I don’t know. I want to talk to Zeek.”  
  
“Go by his parents’ restaurant and ask them for his phone number—"  
  
“They don’t like me; they threw me out of there.”  
  
“I’ll call them. I’ll get the number.”  
  
“Can I use your phone if I want to call him?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
So the simplest of deals was struck: you’d get Zeek’s phone number, and Alan would return to call him.  
  
It was, in retrospect, the beginning of the end.

*********************

**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_is this the real life?  
is this just fantasy?  
  
seven weeks later…_  
  
It was a pretty normal day that Wednesday when you came from work and were standing in the kitchen getting ready to make dinner when Justin came with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder and leaned on the kitchen counter right in front of the sink, “Okay, I’m outta here.”  
  
"You said you were staying for dinner," you reminded him. He was wearing the one pair of jeans that you detested fashion-wise but found him undeniably attractive in and that just made his announcement that much worse. “I know, but I’m not,” he said. You tried to hide your disappointment, “Why not?” He sighed, “Because my muse has four very flat tires, and if I don’t go do something, I’m gonna lose the fucking car, too.”  
  
“No luck today then?” you asked him as you started to wash the potatoes. Luckily, they were _filthy._  
  
“It was like electrocuting a corpse—utterly pointless.”  
  
“Nice image, Justin.”  
  
“Sorry,” he said, “I think I just need to go somewhere where there are a lot of hot, sweaty, needy men and let them fight over me. That usually works.”  
  
“Well, that’s nice to know for the future.”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be a cunt; Alan’s here and he’ll have dinner with you.”  
  
“Justin, I realize that it’s rather en vogue for your social set to use that word, but if you ever call me that again—"  
  
“Jesus, I meant ‘bitch.’ Sorry.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Where is Alan, anyway?”  
  
“He’s in your office pretending to talk to Zeek.”  
  
You shook your potato peeler at him, “Why are _you_ being such a you-know-what today?”  
  
“I’m _not_. You asked me a question; I answered it.”  
  
“I told him he could call Zeek whenever he wanted. He’s allowed to do that.” Justin laughed and picked up the phone in the kitchen and put it next to your ear, “I _know_ that. I’m telling you that he’s _pretending._ Check the phone bill.” The dial tone droned in your ear. You stared at Justin, and he stared back, and then you walked out of the kitchen and stood outside your closed office door and listened.  
  
Alan was talking a mile a minute.  
  
Justin waved good-bye over his shoulder and walked out the front door.  
  
*********************  
_I see a little silhouetto of a man_  
  
You were very careful not to expose Alan at dinner. He picked at his food, didn’t seem very interested in it; he seemed much more interested in why Justin wasn’t there. “He decided to go out,” you said. “Are you mad?” he asked you. “No,” you lied, “Why would I be mad?”  
  
“Because you want to have sex with him.” The look on Alan’s face was strangely child-like for such an adult conversation. You took a _long_ sip of water before you answered him, “What makes you think I want to have sex with him?”  
  
“Because you’ve had sex with him before.”  
  
“Did Harper tell you that?” you asked him.  
  
“I saw you kiss him in the hall a long time ago.”  
  
“Have you had sex with people that you’ve kissed?”  
  
“I don’t kiss people.”  
  
……  
  
“Do you want something different to eat, Alan?” you asked him. “You’re not eating what’s on your plate.”  
  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
“I have cookies.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
You cleared the table and came back with cookies and a half gallon of milk and as you poured, Alan rested his head on top of his hands and smiled. “You look really tired today,” you said.  
  
“That’s ‘cause I am.”  
  
“Why? Did you have a hard day?”  
  
“Yeah. I did,” he said, and you were fascinated just watching him regress right in front of you. He was imagining that hard day in his head.  
  
“Is that why you wanted to talk to Zeek? Because you had a hard day?” you asked him and you watched his face very carefully, and he didn’t miss a beat, “Yeah, ‘cause he understands when you have a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it and people are hassling you and all that.” He sounded exactly like Zeek when he spoke, so much so that you almost started laughing at the impression.  
  
“It’s nice to have a friend like that to talk to.”  
  
“Yeah, he’s my best friend,” Alan said, “I mean upstairs. He’s my best friend _upstairs._ ”  
  
The cookies were going fast, and you wanted to keep talking to this Alan Harper, so you took a stab at something. “I guess I was kind of disappointed that Justin didn’t stay for dinner tonight.” He stopped chewing and looked at you curiously. “Why?” he asked. “I guess it sort of hurt my feelings,” you explained. “Did you tell him you were mad?” he asked you. “No, not really, but I think he knew.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because we know each other pretty well, and you can just tell those things after a while, you know?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Like if Harper’s frustrated with you, you can probably tell right?”  
  
“She never gets mad at me on purpose.”  
  
You laughed, “Just by accident?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess we have a lot of accidents.” You were both laughing, and you got up from the table and took the dishes into the kitchen, put them into the dishwasher, and when you went back out into the dining room Alan wasn’t there. You called for him, and he answered you. He was sitting on the loveseat in your office with a book in his lap:  
  
_Child Development: Nature vs. Nurture_  
  
*********************  
_one is the loneliest number_  
  
He looked up at you like a scared little boy as you stood in the doorway. “You okay?” you asked him.  
  
“… _I_ had a lot of accidents,” he said. You stepped inside your office and sat down in the chair opposite the loveseat, “What do you mean?” And then you noticed that although the book was closed, his finger was stuck in the middle of it marking a page. He flipped the book open, turned it so you could read it and handed it to you. You looked down at the heading at the top of the page:  
  
_Nocturnal Enuresis_  
  
“Bedwetting, you mean?”  
  
“This book says you can’t control it.”  
  
“You can’t. It’s a physical condition—" you said but you cut your explanation short because he was barely listening to you; he was disappearing into his head, and your eyes were wandering to your wall-to-wall bookshelves because you were noticing for the first time that all the books were in different places. He wasn’t coming into your office and pretending to talk to Zeek; he was reading aloud to himself. You closed the book, set it aside, and pulled your chair closer to him, “Alan? You look like you’re very upset.”  
  
“I am,” he said as his face began to redden.  
  
“Can you tell me why?”  
  
_“Sometimes I still do it,”_ he whispered.  
  
“That’s okay. Some people don’t grow out of it.”  
  
“Stitch goes fucking crazy when it happens.”  
  
“What does ‘fucking crazy’ mean?” you asked. He threw his hands up in the air, almost yelling through his tears, “Mad! Mad, mad, mad! He gets very mad,” and then he pulled everything back in like he’d just performed a monologue, taken a bow, and left the stage. You wanted a lot more information, but he was more fragile than a _Faberge_ egg at that moment, so you were careful. “How often does it happen?” you asked him. “When I have a nightmare,” he said.  
  
********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_because Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man  
that he didn’t, didn’t already have_  
  
As you walked toward the cathedral, you kept yourself focused completely on Justin, your left hand wrapped around his right hand. You thought about nothing else but the next step you had to take; you made yourself forget how familiar that walk felt because you needed to keep your head in the game. As you got within a block of the church, his grip on your hand began to get much tighter. There was a mob scene in his immediate future. The minute Justin saw what you saw, he yanked you into a coffee shop and surrendered. “I can’t do this.” The place was noisy and packed, but you found a place to sit that was right by a window with a view of the church. A minute or so passed, and Justin pointed out the window, “There’s Zeek and Gabe.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“They actually look like brothers from far away, you know?” You laughed, “Don’t ever tell them that; they’ll kill each other.” Justin laughed, his fingers fiddling with a pack of _Equal_ until a limo pulled up. No one emerged for several seconds as efforts were made to move the press back, and then finally the door opened, and Sam’s head could be seen—  
  
“God, he’s hot,” you said.  
  
“I know; it’s just wrong.” And then Harper’s long hair appeared, and they were both looking down. Moments later, Amelia could be seen between her parents, the three holding hands and Sam holding a rather large rabbit under his arm as they climbed the steps of the church, very slowly, Amelia quite determined to take her time. She let go of their hands when they got to the top and clapped. “She reminds me so much of you,” Justin said.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“She’s so infinitely proud of herself.”  
  
“I have every reason to be infinitely proud,” you reminded him.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Look who I get to fuck every night.”  
  
He turned and smiled at you, and then he kissed you, and then he said, “Do you want me to get you some coffee?”  
  
“Like when we’re at home?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No, I want you to tell me why we’re in here.”  
  
He dodged your question, “Can’t we just go back to the hotel and fuck?”  
  
“No. Why aren’t we going in the church like everybody else?”  
  
“I’ll suck you off in the bathroom right now,” he offered.  
  
“I’m touched, but no; you have sixty seconds to answer me or I’m picking you up and carrying you across the street.”  
  
“That’s probably what you’re going to have to do,” he admitted.  
  
“Come here,” you said, taking his hand and pulling him outside the coffee shop so you could hear yourself think, and when you got outside the doors, he seemed resigned to the fact that you were going to hurl him over your shoulder like a caveman, but when you led him over to a bench and told him to sit down instead, he seemed confused, “Am I in time out?” You laughed, “Yeah, you’re in time out.”  
  
“Can I be in time out for the rest of the day?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
“Look at me,” you said, and when he did, you reached down and put your hand on the inside of his thigh as you leaned forward, your mouth right beside his ear, _“That courage you were looking for at St. James; it’s not in that locker room; it’s in my hand,”_ and then you moved your hand forward a little to make your point. You felt him rest his hand on your arm, his forehead on your shoulder as you continued, “ _And believe me, you have plenty._ ” And then you felt his hand cover yours and hold it hostage between his legs, and then he looked at you, and you kissed him for a long, long time, and you could tell that he was disappointed when it was over because it somehow hadn’t transported him somewhere else. “Do you know why I fell in love with you?” you asked him. “Because my ass is as pretty as my face?” he answered. A fire truck roared by, sirens on full blast, “…That’s why I wanted you in my bed, not why I fell in love you.”  
  
“Then I have no idea,” he said.  
  
You took your sunglasses off and folded them in your hand. “Because since the moment I met you, I’ve never seen you make a decision out of fear—not even when you probably should have.”  
  
He squinted in the sun, “Really?”  
  
“Really. You’re the only person I know who never lets that factor in. You’re not afraid of anything.”  
  
“I’m afraid right now.”  
  
“No, you’re not; you’re uncomfortable, and so am I. We’d be androids if we weren’t; I mean, after everything we’ve been through together.”  
  
“And apart,” he added.  
  
“Exactly. That’s what I mean; I’m here, okay? _Prada_ didn’t put out an Invisibility line this spring. You _do_ see me, right?”  
  
He laughed at you, “Yes, I see you.”  
  
“Just checking.”  
  
*********************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_talk to me  
so you can see  
what’s going on_  
  
In the months and years that followed, you worked to gain Alan’s trust, and slowly he came around, literally and figuratively, and you’d often come home from work as Justin was leaving, and he’d give you a funny look and tell you that Alan was ‘talking to Zeek again,’ and you’d just smile, and, admittedly, it diverted your attention from Justin walking away everyday, and when Amelia was an infant, Harper was rarely in the studio for an appreciable length of time, so the situation was nearly perfect—except for Jonathon’s regular diatribe about the risk you were taking treating, _“A guy that lives in the fucking sewer.”_  
  
In the beginning, Alan was usually in your office with the door closed, and you let him open the door when he was ready, and you never said one word to him about his ‘conversations;’ you’d just go in and see what he had for you—sometimes it was something he’d pulled off of a shelf and sometimes it was something he’d sketched. You kept your office stocked with pads, pencils, charcoal, anything you could think of once you realized how talented he was. Your ‘sessions’ with him were often very superficial; he’d make things up, create experiences to talk to you about, but you just listened because there was truth in that as well, but then fate stepped in and handed you the catalyst you needed—  
  
Your mother died.  
  
Everything was different after that. When you returned to New York, Justin was painting through the night and leaving in the morning—his muse somehow affected by his recent and temporary departure from the city. On the days that Alan showed up, you had to be mindful of Justin’s late arrival, listen for him as he’d wander into the kitchen, grab dinner, and then mosey up the stairs to entertain yet another night of nocturnal inspiration. You became attuned to it and would often just excuse yourself from your office, close the door behind you, make chit chat with Justin for a few minutes, and then feign a mountain of paperwork you needed to catch up on and return to Alan where he was waiting patiently. Your mother’s passing gave you the opportunity you needed, but it was also a risk—one that you didn’t tell Jon or anyone else about—when you left the church bulletin from her funeral in your office in a place where you knew Alan would see it, and it worked, but not in the way you expected.  
  
He began to sketch with the door open.  
  
“May I come in and watch?” you asked him from the doorway.  
  
“If you want,” he said, not looking up.  
  
The first sketch that emerged was very unsettling. There was a boy lying in a bed on his side, naked from the waist down, his legs pulled up to his chest; the view was of his back and his backside not his face, and then there was his hand that was holding onto to a pipe on the wall, but it was a man’s hand, not a little boy’s. “This is you?” you asked him. He didn’t answer you verbally; he just looked up at you apologetically as if to imply that he wished he could answer you, but his voice only existed inside his pencil at that point. He sketched the rest of the bed and although he didn’t draw another figure in it, he drew a deep depression in the sheets, hollowed out right next to him. By the time he finished, his hand was trembling as if it was solely responsible for the revelation and his pencil was dull. You put your hand on top of his and squeezed, removing the pencil with the other. “I want to know what’s going on with this little boy,” you said. And when he continued to shake and was still unable to respond to you, you took a legal pad off of your desk, ripped off a blank page, turned back around and covered the part of the picture that showed the man’s hand. “Not you, Alan. This little boy. What’s going on with him?” He slid the paper out from under your hand, revealing the entire picture again. When you gave him a quizzical look, he said, “This isn’t about him.”  
  
It took several more meetings to get more information out of Alan because the bits and pieces you got were so fragmented that they didn’t make much sense. His sketches were amazing, but the pieces you were able to gather up didn’t really form a coherent picture. But all of the pictures he drew stayed on that one sketch pad that he kept in your office, so you’d often go back and look at older ones when the new ones weren’t making much sense, so one day you went back to that first picture and pointed to the depression Alan had sketched in those sheets and you asked him, “Are those sheets wet? Is that why you’re alone in that bed?”  
  
“They smell,” he said.  
  
“Like urine?”  
  
He nodded, and then he added, “Like sweat.”  
  
“You’re not sweating in that picture; who’s sweating?”  
  
He became nervous, almost sweating himself, “I need to talk to Zeek about this.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Because he does it, too.”  
  
“Does what?”  
  
“He has sex with everybody.”  
  
It took one more week for you to get the first layer of truth out of Alan, that Stitch was having sex with him (and not, Alan stressed, the other way around) because every time Stitch had sex with a woman, she got pregnant. It took about a month for you to realize that Stitch had fathered three of the children living in Alan’s underground community, that one of them had died with days of being born, and that Stitch had assigned Alan the task of giving the infant a proper burial. “Because you get used to it,” Alan told you. “Stitch says you get used to it.” It took another two weeks before you were convinced that you were often treating Stitch through Alan, that it was psychiatry by proxy, and that you were in way over your head, but it was too late.  
  
You had long discussions with Alan about Stitch, about his service in the Persian Gulf war, about the personal devastation he faced when he returned home, how he lost his wife and daughter largely because his PTSD was so severe that he couldn’t work. You tried to convince Alan to convince Stitch that because he was a veteran of the Armed Services, there were rights and benefits that he was entitled to, but Alan fought back against you, “He won’t come back upstairs. They won’t help him because he doesn’t have an address. They want to stick in him a loony bin. He won’t go. He needs us.”  
  
“He needs help, Alan. Very serious help. Are you giving him the meds that you’re not taking?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did he have mental health problems before he went into the service?” you asked him.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Where was he working before he got called up?”  
  
“He volunteered.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because he couldn’t get a job.”  
  
“Why couldn’t he get a job?”  
  
“Because--,” and then he stopped and stared at you, clearly feeling tricked.  
  
“Because he had mental health issues? I think we're back where we started, Alan."  
  
“Tag, you’re it,” he said.  
  
“No, _you’re_ it, Alan. That’s what I’m trying to get you to see. Stitch has become your new mother. You think if you can take care of him, that will fix all the agony inside you?”  
  
“You don’t get it.”  
  
“The hell I don’t. The only parent you bonded with was schizophrenic or so we think; you think it’s a coincidence that you’re re-enacting that relationship with Stitch? You’re trying to correct it.” Alan stared blankly at you; he knew you were right, and he knew that you knew that he knew. Anger had a way of fizzling out when it got to Alan’s face, disappearing into a child-like ignorance. “Well, I’ll give him this,” you told him, “He’s a little like your father; he takes advantage of you and makes you deal with his emotional crap.”  
  
“He does not.”  
  
“He’s buried himself underground and isolated his ‘family’ the same way your father isolated your family; your father was too inconvenienced to do his manly duty and visit his own wife in the hospital; Stitch makes you have sex with him because he's too inconvenienced to use birth control."  
  
“I don’t mind. It helps us stay warm.”  
  
“Alan, get a blanket and build a fire. That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“He’s happy when we paint.”  
  
“I understand that he’s your friend; that he’s taken you in, but I want you to listen to me. First of all, if he’s schizophrenic, he should’ve never been allowed to serve, but those kinds of horrendous decisions have been made for years, and if he went over there pre-disposed to mental disease and then went through a war, god help him, Alan. No wonder he’s in the shape he’s in. Secondly, there are laws in the state of New York that provide job training and placement for veterans; there are programs that make sure they can find work, that they get all of the care that they need—mental and physical. He’s not the first veteran to go through this and he won’t be the last. He doesn’t have to go through this alone.”  
  
“He doesn’t believe that stuff.”  
  
“Look, tell him if he comes up, I will help him get through the system and get the help he needs. He shouldn’t have to live like this; he fought for our country; it’s disgraceful.”  
  
“We don’t trust people.”  
  
“ _No,”_ you corrected him, “ _He_ doesn’t trust people. _You_ do. You trust me.”  
  
“He doesn’t know that I trust you. He doesn’t know that I come here to talk to you; he thinks I come here to see Harper and Amelia and Justin because I like his work. That’s all.”  
  
You felt like you were going round and round and round headed for the drain, “Okay, okay. Let’s just forget about Stitch then, okay? Let’s talk about you.”  
  
*********************  
_don’t punish me with brutality_  
  
You told him about losing your father when you were young, about the affect that had on you, about how it made you empathize with him. You reminded him of the first time he spoke to you about his mother’s death years ago, how nothing horrible had happened after that, that it was safe to talk about things. He nodded his head.  
  
“So where did you bury this baby?” you asked him.  
  
“I’m not supposed to say.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because somebody will tell the police, and they’ll dig it up.”  
  
“I don’t want to dig up the baby,” you reassured him, and you didn’t, but you felt compelled to tell him that because of his childhood, he needed to be very careful who he hung around with because there were some people in the world, in his ‘family,’ who were exploiting that vulnerability in him—intentionally or unintentionally. “You don’t get used to going through something horrific, Alan; you become desensitized and unconnected. That’s a completely different thing.” And after learning that sex with Stitch was unprotected, you went with him to a clinic and had him tested for everything. The results were negative the first time around, and you told him that you would take him every six months. He gave you the results to keep because he didn’t want Stitch to know he’d seen a doctor. When you gave Jonathon an update, he went fairly ballistic, _“You are out of your mind and your league now, Dan. That guy Stitch is probably half-cocked and ready to blow. You better watch your step.”_  
  
But knowledge is power, and Alan seemed better as time worn on. Amelia was toddling around so Harper was back in the studio; Justin was coming out of his funk, so he was starting to keep regular hours once again, and you’d often come home from work to find all four of them playing together. Alan came alive when he was around Amelia; she adored him. Even Harper could see the miracle in their relationship because it wasn’t built on confusion or pain or fear or fantasy, but on laughter and affection and really idiotic dance moves. Everything was born in the moment and never regretted. For Alan, Amelia was living proof that there was pure goodness in the world; she wanted nothing from him but his attention. It was the purest of relationships, and it began to change Alan. Harper commented once that, “He knows that she loves him, and I think that’s the first time he’s ever believed that anyone really did.” Amelia’s hysterical giggling echoed all the way down the stairwell. It wasn’t uncommon for Alan to come downstairs for dinner with whatever hat and jewelry Amelia had dressed him in. He was her favorite dress-up doll.  
  
And then there was a night when Justin was babysitting for Amelia because Harper and Sam were out, and Alan was there, and you were downstairs at your dining room table with paperwork spread out everywhere and Amelia’s squeals of laughter were making you smile; it was time for her bath and you knew she was running away from Justin; you could hear her overhead, back and forth in the hall.  
  
_“I’m going to play Yellow Submarine all by myself then Amelia,”_ you heard Justin say, and then you heard Amelia’s response, _“No!”_ and her little feet run all the way back towards the bathroom, _“You’re ‘upposed to wait for me!_ ” And the water started running and the usual commotion ensued, and then you looked up, and Alan was standing in front of you white as a sheet. “Hey,” you said.  
  
“I’m having a nightmare.”  
  
“You’re not asleep,” you joked, but then you realized that he was serious, that something was wrong; his pants were darkening; tears were filling his eyes; he stood there like a stranger in his own body, shell-shocked and terrified.  
  
“Alan, it’s okay; it’s okay,” you said as you got up from the table. You put your arm around his shoulders, and he turned and looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. “Let’s just go into the bathroom right here. It’s okay.” He did as you asked; his feet shuffling on the floor, a trail of urine left behind. The tiny guest bathroom was barely big enough for both of you. “Do you need me to help you get out of these clothes?” you asked him once he seemed like he was able to hear you, and he looked down at his pants, and then up at your face, and you said, “It’s over, Alan; it’s okay. Do you need help?”  
  
_“I can do it,_ ” he whispered.  
  
“I’ll be right back.”  
  
You went across the hall, opened the linen closet, bent down and unzipped your gym bag, yanking out a pair of underwear, socks and sweat pants that you always kept in there just in case you ever actually went to the gym and then returned to the bathroom. Alan was sitting on the toilet, naked from the waist down, his pants in a ball on the floor. “The pants might be a little short,” you said. “Can you get me a wet towel or something?” he asked. “Sure.” You returned a few seconds later with a warm, damp towel and a dry one, “Just come out when you’re ready, okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “Okay.”  
  
*********************  
_you and I collide_  
  
“I need to clean up the floor,” Alan said once he was sitting in clean clothes in your office.“I already cleaned it up. Don’t worry about it.” He sat on the loveseat in your office that he’d sat on a million times before, but he looked like a different person; his boyish qualities were receding. “Do you understand what happened?” you asked him, noticing his uneven and dirty fingernails for the first time, his five o’clock shadow. “Uh, yeah, I pissed myself,” he said.  
  
“Right, but I mean mentally and emotionally.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Did you feel it start?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“When you came downstairs, you said that you were having a nightmare. Do you remember that?”  
  
“…Yes.”  
  
You got up and closed the door to your office, dimmed the lights a little in your office because he seemed to be squinting and sat back down, “What was the nightmare? Do you remember?”  
  
“Amelia was in the bathtub.”  
  
“That wasn’t a nightmare; that was real.”  
  
“That was also my nightmare.”  
  
“Why is that a nightmare?”  
  
“Something bad could happen.”  
  
“Like what happened to you?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Are you comfortable talking about this?” you asked him, responding to the hesitancy in his voice.  
  
“What if it happens again?”  
  
“I don’t think it will; your bladder is empty, but if it does, it does. I’m not worried about that. I’m dying to replace that couch. Do you want your sketchpad?”  
  
“No.”  
  
You laid it next to him on the loveseat in case he changed his mind, “Let’s try again, okay? We’ll go as far as you want to go; if you don’t feel safe, we’ll stop.”  
  
“Okay.” He pushed the sketch pad off the edge of the sofa and laid down. “Go.”  
  
You pulled your desk chair closer; his arms were crossed over his chest as he stared blankly at the ceiling. “Tell me about the nightmare. Do you remember it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Can you put me in it?”  
  
“I’m walking into the bathroom; I’m behind myself, not inside myself….”  
  
“Where’s this bathroom?”  
  
“In my house.”  
  
“Is your mother in the nightmare?”  
  
“Yes, but I don’t look at her in the nightmare; I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“She’s… It’s horrible… I can’t….” He started to cry; you handed him the box of tissues off of your desk and his body turned; he held the box the way a child hugs a teddy bear.  
  
The chronology of the nightmare stopped. “Alan, I’m very sorry about what happened to your mother and about what happened to you; no child should ever have to experience something like that,” you said.  
  
“I loved her.”  
  
“Tell me about her; tell me something good about your mother.”  
  
“She babied me; she spoiled me rotten. I don’t mean that she gave me things because we didn’t have money; I just mean that she was always hugging me and she was always smiling at me and tickling me. Always.”  
  
“You were the youngest. She called you something funny, didn’t she? Harper told me—“  
  
“’Alley Oop.’”  
  
“Was your mother artistic like you?”  
  
He smiled, “Yeah, actually she was. She never slept at night when she was home with us; she was always up watching TV, and she was usually doodling, too.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, and then started again, “I miss her.”  
  
“She loved you unconditionally; she cherished you.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Why didn’t she sleep at night?”  
  
Alan stretched out, abandoning his child-like posture, setting the box of Kleenex on the floor, “You know she always said she couldn’t, that she had insomnia, but I think she wanted to be awake when my Dad was asleep. They never got along. That was her peace and quiet. She slept while we were at school.”  
  
“What happened tonight, Amelia being in the bathtub, that brought that all of those feelings about your mother back, didn’t it?”  
  
Alan turned, looked at you and sat up, his elbows resting on his knees, “She wanted me to come in and play with her.”  
  
“Is that when it happened?”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘it.’”  
  
“Is that when you dug up the real baby you buried?”  
  
Alan’s posture stiffened immediately; his eyes shifting from left to right as if he was suddenly in new surroundings, and he watched you like a hawk as you got up and pulled a book off your shelf, one that Alan was familiar with; he’d been reading it. His eyes followed your hand as it sat the book next to him on the sofa; you didn’t need to open it. “Alan, I think Amelia’s unconditional love and affection for you puts you in a very safe emotional place, and I think that when she invited you into the bathroom to play with her, that unguarded part of you walked in there, and I think—“  
  
“I integrated a dissociative state.” You nodded your head at his answer. “Holy fuck.” You laughed at his reaction. “What do I do now?” he asked you, his eyes opening wide.  
  
You knew he knew because he’d dog-eared that part of the book as well. You leaned forward a little as you spoke to him, “You welcome him in and honor him and help him grieve for the loss of his individuality and purpose.”  
  
“Oh, is that all? Piece of cake.”  
  
*********************  
_there will be no white flag above my door_  
  
When Alan left that night, you were very uncomfortable telling him good-bye, but very relieved to see him sitting outside on your front steps the next morning when you were leaving for work. “Hi,” you said, “What’s up?”  
  
“I told Stitch that I’m babysitting Amelia for a couple days; I can’t be down there right now; it’s too weird.”  
  
“Come on in,” you said, “I have to go to work; are you okay being by yourself all day?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
When you came home that night, he’d had an artistic explosion, much of it abstract which wasn’t really Alan’s style, but as you talked with him about it, he explained that it was the calling card of the young boy he was leaving behind. “It’s how he feels,” he says, “It's his chaos; he’s being abandoned.”  
  
“He’s not being abandoned. He’s just going to have learn to get along with everyone else. He needs to talk about what happened to him; he needs to share that with everyone else so they understand him. By understanding him, they’ll understand themselves.”  
  
“It’s too hard.”  
  
”It’s very hard, Alan. A child-state is an escape; it can become no different that drugs or alcohol; it’s the equivalent of running and hiding in an emotional closet.”  
  
“He’s a brat.”  
  
“No, he’s afraid. He doesn’t know the rest of you; he doesn’t trust that he’ll be taken care of, but he wants to; that’s why he came through.”  
  
“And peed on the floor.”  
  
“He got your attention, didn’t he?”  
  
“Fuck him.”  
  
“Don’t treat him like your father treated you.” Alan’s expression changed; he was almost glaring at you. “Well, where do you think he came from, Alan? Outer space?” Alan flopped down on the futon in a dramatic, defeated flourish. “You’re not banishing him; you’re just setting some boundaries. I think the way he came through, peeing on the floor, there’s a reason for that.”  
  
“Yeah, no shit; he has no manners.”  
  
“No, he has no _control_ because children rarely have control over anything in their lives—where and what they eat, where and when they go to sleep, elimination and toileting issues—and very often when a child's experiencing stress, that's where you'll see it. I think your nightmare where you keep wetting the bed is a recurrence of finding your mother, and you’re urinating because you’ve lost the ultimate control in that little boy’s life in that point; you can’t keep him safe anymore, and until you let him in, forgive him, and love him, he’s going to keep peeing on the floor because he’s terrified and alone and he’s trying to get your attention now that you’re old enough to help him.”  
  
“You have no idea how much I hate it when you’re right.”  
  
You stood up, “I’m starving. I’m meeting Jon for dinner tonight, and I’m going to be late.”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“You stay here and work on your relationship with him; I’ll see you when I get back.”  
  
“God, you suck,” he said, and you laughed at him as you ran down the stairs.  
  
*********************  
_a heart in New York_  
  
When you got home from dinner with Jon, you climbed the stairs to the second floor and found Alan zonked out on the futon in the studio. You walked quietly from easel to easel. The abstract paintings were dry and tossed aside, replaced by a charcoal sketch of a woman you’d never seen before, but the likeness was unmistakable.  
  
It was Ruth.  
  
The image haunts you to this day because he sketched himself as a little boy staring at the back of his mother’s head and shoulders as she sat on the sofa staring at a television that was nothing but static. You had an overwhelming feeling that this was the way that Alan wanted to remember Ruth because the detail in the sketch was unbelievably meticulous. He had drawn a copy of TV Guide propped open on the arm of the sofa, a bag of potato chips showing just above the arm of the sofa with a price tag reading fifty nine cents. As you exited the room, you turned off the lights. When you awoke the next morning—a Saturday—the studio was back its immaculate condition, and the sketch of Ruth was lying on the end of your bed, a post-it attached--

 

 

  
  


 

 

When Alan visited from that point on, things went back to normal. Your ‘sessions’ with him seemed to be over. He was no longer sketching in your office when you came home from work; many times he was leaving as you arrived, and you’d stand on the sidewalk in front of your home and chat with him as you would any other friend you had. He was carrying himself differently; he had an aura of self-reliance about him on the street.

On the days when you came home and found him still in the studio, he was the old Alan, much meeker and still playing the part for Harper; he didn’t stand up as straight or speak with as much veracity, but he was clearly there for Amelia. She saw the real Alan more than anyone else; his guard began to fall with her as time went by. One afternoon when the skies were clearing after a bunch of rainy days, Alan offered to take Amelia for a walk so she could get some of her pent up energy out, and you watched Harper’s face as she accepted the fact that her little brother was in fact a man and could be trusted to hold his niece’s hand and walk around the block. Harper’s grieving process for her little brother began long before he was actually dead.

And then one night when you were in the kitchen after a particularly messy dinner, Alan was helping you rinse off the dishes, and when you asked him how he was doing in your quiet, serious doctor voice, he said, very calmly, “I sleep with my pants on now.” You patted him on the shoulder and smiled.

*********************  
_if not now  
then when?_

And all the while Alan was finding his voice, Justin had been finding his heart, and when he announced that he was leaving the city and reuniting with his partner, you reluctantly admitted to yourself that having Justin around to massage your ego when he wasn't the least bit interested in massaging anything else had been nothing but a very attractive crutch for you, and when you put it down, you realized that you weren't really yearning for another 'Justin' to take his place.  And when it was time to tell him good-bye, when he thanked you for everything you'd done for him, you felt the real hole in your heart. You missed him—yes; he was a true friend, but when Alan stood in the doorway of your kitchen one day in March of that year and asked if he could, "Maybe use Justin's studio space, if it's okay? You know, maybe just to try. I don't know; do you think I'm good enough?" you felt it fill up again.

"You're more than good enough," you told him, "Are you serious?"

"Well, I mean, it would be nice to have sunlight when I draw, you know an actual _window.”_

You smiled, "I'm sure it would be.”

"I don't know if I want to sell it or just fuck around with it; I don't know."

"Doesn't matter. Art is a lot like therapy; sometimes you don't know why you're there, but you show up and just see what happens."

"And I'm so done with therapy," he said.

You laughed, "Then art it shall be."  
……

You didn’t tell Harper that Alan had asked for Justin’s vacated studio space or that he was considering spending much more of his time ‘upstairs’ because you felt it was his decision and his place to tell her if and when he was ready. You were expecting his answer any day.

Never did you imagine that it would forever stain your sidewalk.

*********************  
_sitting in his Nowhere Land,  
making all his nowhere plans  
for nobody_

Having reviewed your notes on Alan for the last time, you rose from your chair that Friday morning, left your bedroom and walked into Harper’s studio and removed an open cardboard box from one of her shelves. It was full of half-used tubes of paint and boxes of charcoal and pencils and everything else that Justin had casually left behind, _“Harper or Alan, they can have this stuff if they want it. It’s not worth packing, Dan.”_ You sat the box on Harper’s desk and began to tear the folder and all of its contents into a million little pieces, watching them fall into the box like snowflakes, and when you were done, you carried the box downstairs where Jon was waiting for you with your nice eyeglasses in his hands, and you switched pairs, leaving your old ones on a table in the foyer.

“What’s in the box?” he asked you.

“Trash.”

He knew you were lying, but he didn’t argue with you; he just followed your lead and walked with you down the sidewalk until you stopped and said, “I have to get rid of this before we get there, okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

And you crossed a busy street and walked some more until you came to a subway station, “Come on,” and Jon followed you down the stairs and stood with you in silence as you waited for a train to come, and after it came and went, you walked up to the edge of the platform by yourself, hugging the box in your arms as you faced the tracks, and said a quiet good-bye…

“Alan, I want you to know that I’m proud of you; that you did some of the hardest work I’ve ever seen on the couch. I don’t know if you know that or not; you did something that very few people are ever able to do.” You stopped because you were starting to cry. Jon was watching, he could tell so he started to approach you, but you shook your head and he backed off. And then you heard his voice, _“You’re too close to the tracks, Dan. Back up.”_ And when you looked back over your shoulder, you saw transit cops standing with him and a few nosy bystanders, so you took a few steps back, re-focused and continued, “I don’t understand why they did this to you; maybe I’ll find out someday, maybe I won’t…but I hope that wherever you are, you’re at least as happy as the last time I saw you.” The crowd behind you was growing and the noise in the tunnel was getting louder, “I don’t know if it matters to you, but you were…,” the platform began to vibrate, “You were more than a patient or a friend to me, Alan; I feel like….” You looked up and saw the steel force heading your way. “Every time we talked, I heard that familiar echo inside you, a boy growing up without a father; I’m so sorry that I too let you down, that I didn’t get to you in time— Alan, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” you told him, “A train is coming.” And with that, you turned the box over and dumped everything onto the tracks—the paint, the chalk, the torn scraps of your notes and his sketches, and when you turned around, there were two transit cops towering behind you, and you handed one of them the box, and said, “Could you throw this out for me, please?” and the officer looked rather taken aback, but then he looked at your face and said, “Uh, yeah, sure.” And there was a reporter in the crowd, and he pushed through and tried to get in your face, “Dr. Cartwright, are you aware that the officers--?”

“Kindly get the fuck out of my way,” you said, and you could feel Jon on your heels as you pushed your way back up the subway stairs, headed for the street and the sunlight, trying to convince yourself step by step that Alan had finally found his window.

********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
_sometimes I’m right then I can be wrong_

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Dan took off, walking faster than hell toward the church, and you had to work to keep up. You asked him to slow down, but he wouldn’t, responding, “We’ll be late,” and took off again, so you spoke to his back, “I’m twice the shrink you are; you know that right?” He stopped and turned around, and before he could say anything else, you finished your thought, “But you’re ten times the man I am, okay? I get it; it’s over. You win.” He stared at you, looking tired and confused. You kept talking, “I couldn’t have done what you just did; thrown it all away like that. Never, not in a million years.”

“It’s his recovery; it belongs to him, not me.”

“That’s what I mean,” you said. “That’s exactly what I mean.” He continued to stare at you like you were boring him to death. “I thought I knew who you were, okay? You’re my best friend, and I thought I knew you inside and out, but I didn’t. I guess…I underestimated you.”

Daniel looked down at his wrist at the watch he forgot to put on and then back at you, “Beautiful, eloquent speech. Can we please get a move on?”

You looked at yours and threw your hand up--your second surrender in five minutes--to stop a cab.

********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_some are quick to take the bait_

Forgoing the traditional Brian Kinney limo-arrival of late had been the smartest decision you made that day. You and Justin were barely noticed as you crossed the busy street and blended into the crowd in front of the church. Your timing was perfect; Alan’s underground family was getting all of the press attention when you arrived. Once you entered the sanctuary, you both immediately saw Zeek, tall, dark and playing the role of God’s bouncer in his imposing black suit, his hands clasped in front of him.

“You’re in a church, not Babylon,” you said as you approached him.

“Both are rather biblical if memory serves,” he reminded you, still standing at attention like he was at Buckingham palace.

“You look nice, Zeek,” Justin said, and Zeek immediately returned the compliment and then stood at attention again.

Justin let go of your hand when he saw Harper walking in his direction, her hand outstretched. Zeek stopped your forward motion; his hand on your bicep, “Boss man, wait.”

“What?”

“You read the paper this morning?”

You were watching Justin when you told him ‘no,’ and when Zeek said, “Here,“ you looked down at the folded paper in your hand and flipped it open so you could read the headline: _New York’s Finest Plead Guilty: No Denial, No Trial._ When the expression on your face didn’t immediately change, Zeek prodded you, “C’mon, man; this is good news.”

“As if there’s such a thing as no denial,” you countered.

A very thin, pretty girl approached the two of you as you finished your sentence, touched Zeek’s arm, smiled, and walked away; her dress was so tight, her butt squeaked. “When did you find time to tap that piece of ass?” you asked your newspaper when she was out of earshot.

“Front door at about a quarter to two; back door about two thirty.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Nah, she rode; I watched.”

You knew just from looking at the lithe little sparrow that Zeek was full of shit. “There’s no way that little matchstick’s caboose rode your joystick. She’d be in the ER.”

“Eggo been telling big fish stories again?” You slapped him with his newspaper, so he amended his tale, pointing to the woman you’d met earlier in the week who was chatting up the little sparrow in a pew in the middle of the sanctuary. “We use the buddy system,” he declared proudly. “And besides, her name’s ‘Trinity.’”

“And you know what that word means?” you asked him.

Zeek’s eyes cut sharply in your direction while his head stayed exactly where it was, “You’re just jealous now that you and your wife are homogenous.”

_(Well, at least he got the ‘homo’ part right…)_

‘I would just like to remind you both that we are in _church_ ,” came a voice from behind you, and when you turned, you saw Gabe standing there in a suit that looked exactly like one you owned—two years ago. “You done primping for Jesus, ‘Cakes?” Zeek asked him.

“It’s nice to see you, Brian,” Gabe said.

“Well, ladies, the _Armani_ -angel Gabriel has forced me to see the error of my ways,” you told them both. “I shall take my leave of both of you.”

“And I of you,” Gabe said to Zeek, “You lecherous heathen.”

“Oh, bad news, ‘Cakes,” Zeek warned his little brother, “God just heard that. God. Just. Heard. That.”

And so you abandoned Gabe and Zeek and entered God’s house to rejoin Justin, the cathedral smelling like every other church you’d ever been in; it had that musty pious smell that competed constantly with the colognes or lack thereof of its parishioners. All of it changed in intensity as you moved from aisle to pew to aisle and back again, the sound of false pleasantries was drowned out—quite nicely—by Nate at the piano.

He was playing _Yesterday_.

 

 

Lyrics taken from Bryan Adams’ _Here I Am_ , Nelly Frutada and Timberland’s _Promiscuous_ , Bob Seger’s _Still the Same_ , Bryan Adams’ _Heaven_ , The Beatles’ _Nowhere Man_ , The Talking Heads’s _And She Was_ , Curtis Mayfield’s _People Get Ready_ , The Talking Heads _And She Was_ again, John Cougar Mellencamp’s _Crumblin’ Down_ , Kate Bush’s _Running Up that Hill_ , Tracy Chapman’s _Fast Car_ , The Band’s _The Weight_ , Tears for Fears _Don’t You Forget About Me_ , The Beatles’ _Lady Madonna_ , Maroon 5’s _She Will Be Loved_ , Blues Traveler’s _Hook_ , Eric Clapton’s _Tears in Heaven_ , Whitesnakes’s _Here I Go Again_ , Greenday’s _Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)_ , The Dave Matthews Band _Ants Marching_ , The Band’s _The Weight_ again, Billy Joel’s _An Innocent Man_ , The Band’s _The Weight_ again, Queen’s _Bohemian Rhapsody_ three times, Three Dog Night’s _One is the Loneliest Number_ , America’s _Tin Man_ , Marvin Gaye’s _What’s Going On?_ twice, Howie Day’s _Collide_ , Dido’s _White Flag_ , Art Garfunkel’s A _Heart in New York_ , Tracy Chapman’s _If Not Now_ , The Beatles’ N _owhere Man_ again, Sly and the Family Stone’s _Everyday People,_ and America’s _Tin Man_ again.


	46. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 43-Congregate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 4/16/09]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 43-CONGREGATE**  
  
 **STITCH’S POV**  
 _I am nothing;  
I see all_  
  
Every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you were seconds away from addressing the forty or so members of your family as they prepared to go upstairs that Friday morning. A few of the children had slept well the night before while those in your community that couldn’t shake the overwhelming anxiety of what you were about to do stayed up all night and tried to imagine anything and everything that could go wrong. But now the morning was upon you and there was no time left for that. The children were seated on the ground in front of you at a hidden tunnel entrance while the adults stood behind them sealing everyone in until you were ready to leave. You passed out sunglasses to each child, their hands waiting patiently in the air. You went over the rules for the fourth or fifth time knowing that it was overkill; they were as nervous as the rest of you.  
  
But the reason for that wasn’t as straight forward as the casual onlooker would think when your clan emerged hand-in-hand onto a city sidewalk about ten minutes later. Going upstairs was nerve-wracking, yes. Having to interact with police officers was particularly aggravating considering that what happened to one of your own made all of you feel violated, but the issue upsetting your family was far more encompassing than that. This wasn’t how you buried a member of your family. You didn’t give them back to the society that didn’t want them in the first place. You had your own way of doing things.  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _Flesh is merely a lesson.  
We learn it  
& pass on. _  
  
Every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you were seconds away from addressing the end of another man’s life. Your head cleared as you looked out over your congregation that morning--the bright, vibrant faces of those in the first half of the pews fading to the gray, tunnel-dwelling faces of those occupying the back. By the time Jon finally got there with Daniel in tow, it was like watching two people wade through a black and white photograph to find their seats. The only healthy face in the back was Zeek, who refused to come forward. As Jon led Daniel to his seat next to Sam, he glanced at you and that was when you realized that the real struggle going on in the sanctuary that morning was inside you and not your audience.  
  
Nate began to play _Bridge Over Troubled Water._ Sarah began to sing.  
  
You watched as if you were in a movie theater all by yourself as Jon’s arm draped around Dan’s shoulders, and then Sam’s around Harper’s, and then Brian’s around Justin’s, one after the other in synchronized sympathy, a gesture so practiced, it could’ve been part of a _Rockettes_ routine. Sarah and Nate sat with everyone else when they were done, and again, the arm around the shoulders, and then everyone stood, and you led them in a prayer that you weren’t even listening to yourself say, and then everyone sat down again. Jon’s arm was the only one that didn’t return to its former position after the prayer was over. He looked at you again; you shifted your focus to Daniel; he looked down.  
  
*********************  
 **GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
 _they have killed him, The Forgiver  
The Avenger takes his place_  
  
Every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you realized that your brother really thought you came to New York just to chaperone Justin’s clothing and to shadow Brian at a funeral, something you’d never had the pleasure of experiencing before, but he was wrong—as usual. You won’t ever tell him what a constipated penguin he looked like that day even though the suit you help him buy fit perfectly because he always looks like a constipated penguin in these situations for as much of a bruiser your big brother is, death is not his thing.  
  
Zeek likes to take care of people and people’s things; he likes to compartmentalize people’s needs and then over-deliver on one very small but very crucial subset of those needs until he’s convinced himself that the recipient of his hyper-generosity is utterly dependent on him. Zeek is actually a tri-sexual; he fucks his ego relentlessly till it’s seconds from bursting. He can’t run a restaurant, but he’s the only guy in your three surrounding states who can repair discontinued commercial kitchen equipment to code and call the right inspector who'll pass it without replacing the entire panel, and he’ll have that information spray painted on the side of his van to boot. But put your big brother in a situation where he can’t find that one thing to fix or where that one thing that he _thought_ he fixed breaks again for good, and everyone in the three surrounding states suddenly wants to move to Mexico to take cover.  
  
You tried and tried and _tried_ to get Zeek to come sit down with you inside the sanctuary, but he refused, insisting on standing right outside the doors, keeping them open, and shifting his eyes around constantly like trouble was coming. You asked him to do it for you so you wouldn’t have to sit by yourself, and he laughed, “Go sit with your boss, ‘Cakes. He’s alone. Oh wait, my bad, Justin’s there. I thought he was down on his knees.” You smacked him on the back of the headd, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
  
“All I’m sayin’ is that I work security at Babylon, and I review all the tapes at Kinnetik and your restaurant, and there’s not one place that Kinney owns that those two don’t fuck. That’s all I’m sayin.’”  
  
You were mortified, “In my office? He fucks Justin in _my_ office?”  
  
“It’s not your office when you’re not there, is it?”  
  
You felt so filthy. “Where? _Where_ in my office?”  
  
“Well, let’s just say, you’re probably due for a new chair.”  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“Look, don’t freak out. Eggo was riding, so it was Kinney’s ass in the chair, and you kiss that all fuckin’ day, so you just killed two birds with one stone if you ask me.”  
  
But you have to watch your brother because he’s the master of redirection, especially when something’s really bothering him, so you took a deep breath and recalibrated your emotions. “You know, you’re right; it’s just a chair. Just like those pews in there are just chairs, so why don’t you come sit down with me instead of standing out here like a pall bearer for an urn?”  
  
He turned and glared at you, a disgust you hadn’t seen in a long time. “Fuck _you._ ”  
  
You wanted to get closer to him, but Zeek terrifies you when he’s this kind of angry so you stayed where you were, “See? You are in there. Alan was your _friend_ , Zeek. I know; I remember the day he came into the restaurant. I was going to kick him to the curb, and you dropped everything you were doing and ran over to get him. You were ready to kick _me_ to the curb. You cared about him. Will you just admit it and stop acting like a jack ass?”  
  
“Get away from me.”  
  
“Zeek, come on.”  
  
He took a really deep breath which is something you’d rarely seen him do, “Look, I’m really, really pissed right now, and I’m not pissed at you, but if you don’t get the fuck away from me, that’s what it’s going to feel like so _get the fuck away from me._ ”  
  
You stepped back several steps and for some bizarre reason—maybe anger, frustration, exhaustion, the location--you started confessing to him; words jumped out of your mouth like they were drowning in saliva and had one last chance to save themselves, and you pointed at him like you were some spoiled teenage girl who just found out her boyfriend was fucking her sister, “You know, I want you to know that I used to watch you in our backyard every time some stray dog in the neighborhood died; I used to watch you sneak out and bury them right beyond the fence. You yelled at me when I fed them and gave them names, and you were taking care of them all along. You made me feel like shit for caring about them, Zeek. You called me a pussy—“  
  
As usual, the more hysterical you got, the calmer Zeek became, “You fed them three times a day. Nobody feeds a fucking dog fucking three times a day.”  
  
“But they were skin and bones,” you said.  
  
He turned and looked at you, and that’s when you realized that you were sort of crying and that you wanted to stop because you didn’t want him to see but it was too late. He didn’t look angry anymore, just tired. “Gabe, they died because they were already sick. It didn’t matter how many times you fed them. I just didn’t want to tell you that they were all gonna die.”  
  
You felt like a child again, like a blubbering idiot, but at least you were talking to your brother again and not a puffed up peacock. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”  
  
“Because you would’ve blamed yourself and it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“Okay, well this isn’t your fault, Zeek. You always told me Alan had more street smarts than you did. You don’t even live here anymore. There was nothing you could've done to prevent this, and you know it."  
  
“Yeah,” he sighed, giving into a sadness you didn’t know if you’d even seen on him in person but rather just heard in his voice over the phone when he'd had too much to drink.  
  
You stepped closer to him again and put your hand on his shoulder, just barely, “I don’t blame you for feeling like this. I know you care about Harper, and I know he made you feel needed.”  
  
“Yeah, well not anymore, little brother. Not. Any. More.”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _for life's not a paragraph  
And death i think is no parenthesis_  
  
You’d rewritten, revised, and rehashed your words for that morning a hundred times on paper and in your head before the moment you were supposed to deliver them and as you stood before a sea of eyes waiting for you to begin there was still new data filtering in and refining your message. The book in your hand, you opened it and flattened it against the podium to anchor yourself. It was a favorite in your personal library and surrendered with ease.  
  
 _Alan._  
  
You cleared your throat out of habit.  
  
You thought about your trusty glass of water hidden in the shelf below. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jon shift in his seat; he thought you were taking too long. You introduced yourself the way you always do when you’re preaching at another church as the people in front of you weren’t your parishioners…because that was really just sinking in. These weren’t the people who came to see you every week with pre-determined expectations. And so after your introduction, you continued…  
  
 **“…And I want to welcome you…because I know each and every one of you struggled—in your own way—to get here today. I know that for some of you the hurdle was logistical, for others, more mental, spiritual…emotional. I know that some of you are sitting and staring at me and wondering if anyone will notice if you get up and leave. But I would like to ask you to stay…because we’re all grieving today, and I think we’ll all be better off if we stick together…”**  
  
*********************  
 **DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _Death also sees, though distantly,  
And I must trust then as now  
As prism—of another kind,  
Through which one may not put one’s hands to touch._  
  
How you got there you weren’t exactly sure, but there you were, sitting with Alan on piss-soaked train tracks that instead smelled like lavender for some reason, and then Alan showed you why, tapping you on the shoulder and telling you to look behind you, so you did. The graffiti that had covered the gritty wall of the tunnel was gone; it was covered top to bottom with Monet’s _Water Lilies_. “Where did that come from?” you asked him. “Me,” he said with a smile, and then he waved his hand in front of your face and there were water lilies again, just different ones, still Monet’s. “Can you tell the difference?” he asked you.  
  
“Yeah, you’ve lost your mind.”  
  
“No, I mean in the _before_ and _after_.”  
  
“Show me again,” you said just because you wanted to see him do it so he did it again, making them change three times instead of two.  
  
“See it?” Alan asked again.  
  
“They’re different paintings; I know. That’s all I see.”  
  
Alan smiled at you, “No, it’s more than that. Monet developed cataracts late in his life, and it’s believed that it gave him the ability to detect ultraviolet light so his later depictions of water lilies are bluer than his earlier ones.” You gave him a blank stare, but it didn’t phase him a bit. He continued, “Want to know how I know that?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I read it in a book that was always on your son’s coffee table.” And as he told you that, he turned around, and there he was—your son—standing on the other side of the tracks, two dimensional, painted but so real, holding a brown cardboard box, his arms hugging it hard. “He’s upset,” Alan said softly. You didn’t say anything; you were so close you could almost touch him. “Want to know how I know that?” he asked you again.  
  
“How?” you asked quietly.  
  
“His shoes aren’t polished.” Your eyes reluctantly left Daniel’s face and drove down his body to his feet, the toes of his shoes right on the edge of the platform. “He needs to move back,” Alan said, “They’re going to grab him.”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _Humanity i love you because you  
are perpetually putting the secret of  
life in your pants and forgetting  
it's there and sitting down_  
  
You were barely listening to yourself as you spoke, and it hardly mattered because your audience was more restless than bulls penned up before a rodeo. You thought about switching gears and reciting the _Star Spangled Banner_ just to see if anyone noticed…  
  
*********************  
 **DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _i who have died am alive again today_  
  
Every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life after it was over, when both you and Alan were covered in torn scraps of paper and pelted with broken pieces of chalk, you started to fret because you were losing sight of your son. Alan, on the other hand, was lying on the tracks laughing his ass off. “Did you see that? Did you see what he did?” Alan said, holding his side like it was starting to hurt. “Yeah, I saw it,” you said, panicking because Daniel was gone and you couldn’t make him come back. “But I don’t see what’s so funny about it.”  
  
“He _made_ a _mess_!” Alan exclaimed. “He made a fucking mess! And then he just left it; he just walked away! God, I’m so fucking proud of him.”  
  
You re-evaluated the situation and all of the debris that Daniel had tossed on top of you. Suddenly it felt like a gift. You wanted to collect every piece, stuff it in your pockets. You started laughing, too. Alan sat up, crossed his legs and looked at you very seriously, “I think I cured him.” You smiled and patted him on the head, “You know what? I think you’re right.”  
  
“If I wasn’t dead, I could get paid to do that, you know?”  
  
“I think I have five dollars in my pocket.”  
  
“Then you have to give it to me,” Alan said.  
  
“I was just kidding,” you said, “I got nothing.”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _Death’s long precision while  
All things undo themselves_  
  
You figured you had one of three choices: keep droning on while they stared at you with empty appreciation, walk away and leave everyone sitting there, or do something to shake things up. The first option was far too disrespectful, especially to Alan, the second was intolerable, and that left the third…  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _Power is only pain,  
Stranded, through discipline_  
  
Years after that day, you’d look back on the time you spent in that church and feel it, feel Justin with the same intensity as the night you met him. And while the night you met him went from nervous passion to chaos to a physical bond that you couldn’t shake, that day the process repeated itself between the two of you--only this time it went backwards.  
  
Justin leaned on you from the moment you sat down, your arm was more than draped around his shoulders; he was at times treating that part of your body as an convenient cave. His hand rested on your leg, firmly, as if he was making it very clear that you’d better not get up, and he was swallowing a lot. You began to question yourself. Maybe you’d pushed him a little too hard. Or was your anxiety all about you because it was agonizing to be somewhere where you couldn’t comfort him the way you wanted to—naked in the shower, facing the wall with a very generous reach-around?  
  
*********************  
 **DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _Being walkers with the dawn and morning_  
  
“I don’t understand why we can’t take a taxi,” you complained to Alan as you walked the city streets he obviously knew so well. “We’re dead,” Alan said, “And besides, you don’t have any money.” You hadn’t thought about that part. “Where are we going?” you asked. He stopped and looked at you as if he needed your permission to go any further, “I want to see if I can go back home. I want to show it to you.”  
  
“I thought you said you lived underground?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“I don’t know if we should do that.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well, what if we get stuck there? I mean, we don’t know how we got _here._ ”  
  
Alan smiled, “I know how we got here.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Never mind.”  
  
“Never mind?”  
  
“It’s not important. Hasn’t being dead taught you anything?”  
  
“It’s taught me to be patient,” you admitted. “And I thought I was patient when I was alive.”  
  
“Well, then, please be patient,” Alan said. “That would be great right now.”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _when god lets my body be  
From each brave eye shall sprout a tree_  
  
“ **But today we’re all here in the light of day trying to make sense of this tragedy, and as I look out at all of you, I feel like I should say something all encompassing, like, ‘God never gives anyone more than they can handle,’ or some other laundered cliché, but a platitude like that has no place there, so I’m going to try something else. Most people that I talk to or who come to confessional are either afraid to live or afraid to die. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve ever met who weren’t afraid of either, and Alan is one of them.”**  
  
*********************  
 **ALAN HARPER’S POV**  
 _I have a rendezvous with Death  
At some disputed barricade_  
  
The balcony of the church was hot and stuffy. You pretended to share your pretend popcorn with Danny; he wasn’t interested. Daniel had just taken a seat; Danny looked like he’d been run over by a car. “Danny, it’s okay; relax,” you told him, but he couldn’t. You kicked his leg, “You’re _just_ like Daniel, you know that?”  
  
“I feel really, really weird in here.”  
  
“If you would just calm down, you could feel the positive feelings, too,” you advised him and then you pointed to a jar on the piano, “See that? That’s me.”  
  
“That’s a nice urn.”  
  
“Your son probably paid for it.”  
  
Danny sat up in his chair, “That’s what’s so weird; that’s what I’m feeling. I feel like he would buy an urn for everybody in here.”  
  
You laughed, “He would, and they’d all be monogrammed.”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _i am a little church (far from the frantic  
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature  
i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;  
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing_  
  
You’d gotten their attention.  
  
“ **We’re all struggling with grief today, but I think we’re also wrestling with something else. I’d like to read something to you by one of my favorite poets, Allen Ginsburg.”** And that’s when Jon’s stare became a death stare, and that’s when you decided to just keep going because there was more to this moment than just the beloved Dr. Jon Massey, and maybe he couldn’t see outside his own reality, but you could. So, _fuck him,_ you thought, _I’ll deal with him later._ You turned your attention back to your congregation because, lo and behold, they were finally paying attention. And yet you went right on apologizing for what you were about to do…  
  
“ **Now I realize that I’m a priest, and you’re probably expecting me to quote from scripture up here, but I know the key players sitting out in the congregation today, and I don’t think there’s one of you who walked in here with a bible today—.”** You stopped because you heard Amelia, “ _Daddy, what’s a dibble?”_ And then Sam, “ _Shh._ ” There was an unanimous laugh in the sanctuary followed by Amelia’s solo encore, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sam handle her a bible from the back of the pew. It was too heavy for her and slid right to the floor. “ _’Cause you borgot I’m not big and strong, Daddy._ ” Harper’s head disappeared and reappeared, God’s word in her hand, and unfortunately, also her mouth, “ _Jesus, Sam--_ ” and then she looked at you and stopped, the anger leaving her face and then her body as Sam took the book away from her. You smiled and turned and saw another woman, one of the women in Alan’s community holding up her bible like she just wanted you to see it, wanted you to know that at least one person in attendance knew this was supposed to be a church service. You smiled at her, and she put it down, never taking her eyes off your face. **"So as I was saying, I’d like to read you something from the poet Allen Ginsburg. It’s a excerpt from his poem _Song_ and nothing that I’ve ever read in any book makes me think of Alan more than this:”** You read slowly not just for your audience but for Alan because he deserved each and every word.  
  
 **“ _The weight of the world  
is love….  
  
“Under the burden  
of solitude…  
  
“Under the burden  
of dissatisfaction…  
  
“the weight,  
the weight we carry  
is love_  
  
……  
  
“And I ask you if that’s not the real burden you feel today. If the love Alan had for each and every one of you, perhaps you really feel it now that he’s not here to wear it or package it or disguise it for you…because Alan was a positive force in the lives of every one of you sitting in front of me right now, and I’m wondering, and I guess praying that each of you leaves here today able to finally feel that…because he would be heart-broken if you couldn’t.”**  
  
You closed the book and put it right next to your secret glass of water. You looked back up at your audience and still they sat there stiff and fixated, like rows of popsicles terrified to melt. That was when you realized that despite your best efforts, you were weren’t the right sun to get it done.  
  
*********************  
 **ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
 _a man is a god in ruins_  
  
Every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when found the courage to do sit down next to your little brother at the end of a pew where he was sitting all by himself. He moved over, smiled and didn’t say a word.  
  
*********************  
 **DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _Nothing so far but nearly  
The long familiar pang  
Of never having gone_  
  
Your eyes were drawn to your son as he sat in that pew, drawn to the pain he was radiating. It made it almost impossible to move your eyes anywhere else, so you just listened to Alan and stared at your well-dressed, darkly clad son, sitting up so straight. His posture was always impeccable. You could feel Alan’s hand on your shoulder, “Your son says that there’s two types of people: those that make an impact and those that absorb it.”  
  
You laughed, “Is that right?”  
  
“Yeah, what’s so funny?”  
  
“That’s the analogy I used to explain to him why on earth I married his mother.”  
  
“I thought he learned it in one of his books.”  
  
“Nope, sorry. It’s nice to know I was good for something.”  
  
“Danny, he never stops absorbing. _Ever._ ”  
  
“Is that why I feel like my heart is going through a meat grinder right now?”  
  
*********************  
 **FATHER DICK’S POV**  
 _The truth must dazzle gradually  
Or every man be blind_  
  
So you told them that you were finished, that you’d said everything you had to say, and you took off your cassock, folded it and put it on one of your secret shelves, and then you asked Nate to come up and play something, **“While everyone else decides what they need out of this ceremony today because I don't think it's something they need from me,”** and then you sat down next to Sarah. She smiled at you, patted your knee, and then whispered in your ear, “ _Richard, your fly is down._ ”  
  
You thanked her and then thanked Jesus that Jon was sitting on the other side of your lectern because that meant there was no way he saw that. Nate started to play, _Let It Be._  
  
*********************  
 **DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _And words below a whisper which  
If tended as the graves of live men should be  
May bring their names and faces home_  
  
The meat grinder in your heart stopped right in mid-gear when the music began to play. The scene below you and Alan began to look like a wax museum, a living, breathing wax museum. You started to feel cold. “What the hell’s going on?” you asked Alan who looked as intrigued as you did concerned. He laced his fingers together and then turned them inside out, stretching his arms in front of him as he responded, “Looks to me like a nice old-fashioned game of musical chairs.”  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _I can wade grief,  
Whole pools of it,--  
I’m used to that,  
But the least push of joy  
Breaks up my feet_  
  
The nervous tension in the room rose to a certain height and then leveled off whereas the nervous tension emanating from Justin seemed unrelated to the room. _You_ felt comfortable for some strange reason, felt like you’d been in this bizarre place before or in this state of being; you felt like you were walking around in one of your dreams, only you kept walking in a circle because you were completely unable to put any distance between yourself and Justin. You had a whirlpool of emotions brewing inside you, and the words Justin had spoken to you were tied up inside them: “ _'I want you to know that a part of me is dying; I mean, I don't know what else to call it. If I walk in that church...in that fucking funeral...with you, or for that matter, even without you,...that part of me...is not coming back out.'"_ And suddenly you felt a strange mix of peace and pride rising up inside you. It felt like a steel rod straightening your spine and your heart at the same time. Your immediate reaction was to try to find a way to steal it from yourself and give it to him because--  
  
And then you felt the foolishness in that. And you could imagine Jon telling you that when a plane is crashing you put on your own oxygen mask first before helping someone else, so you fought the urge to short change your own progress for the sweet, sick high of martyrdom, and forced yourself to act like the man you wanted to be and not the man you were. And you could imagine Theodore telling you that if you ran your business the way you ran your relationship with Justin, you would’ve gone bankrupt in six months. And you could imagine trying to pitch your relationship with Justin as a product you wanted to advertise and you realized that there was no way in hell you’d sell anything you didn’t believe in.  
  
And that was when you felt how little you valued _yourself_ since the moment you realized that Justin wasn’t going to die. You could see how every time you gave to him, it was intentionally at your own expense, that you were punishing yourself over and over and over and in the end, all you’d done was crush him in the process. You gave away every bit of security he needed; you loved him so much he couldn’t ever come back and actually enjoy it because once you gave it to him, there was nothing to come back to.  
  
You’d burdened him with everything he wanted… ** _the weight of the world is love…_**  
  
…because he had the audacity to want it... ** _under the burden of solitude_**  
  
…including a disingenuous marriage proposal… ** _under the burden of dissatisfaction…_**  
  
…praying that he’d finally just collapse under all that pressure... ** _the weight, the weight we carry is love_**...so _you_ could stop yourself.  
  
But every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you realized that Justin survived that horrible night so you could spend years trying to kill him just to prove to yourself that you didn’t deserve the lucky break you got when he didn’t die in the first place.  
  
As if it was _your_ lucky break to begin with.  
  
Jon was sitting almost in front of you, and you wanted to jump up, flip open the top of his head, and scream into it, ‘I GOT IT, OKAY? I GOT IT. I’M A FUCKING COWARD!’ and then slam it shut. And then open it back up because you forgot something, ‘AND AN ASSHOLE. A SELF-ABSORBED, SELFISH SHITHEAD OF AN ASSHOLE!’ and then slam it shut again twice as hard. And then you took a Xanax out of your inner suit pocket and swallowed it dry.  
  
Justin wasn’t going to be the only one leaving something behind today; there was something so ungodly dead inside you that you weren’t going to have anything to do with anymore. You were ready to leave this place a little lighter and determined that you weren’t going to do anything to prevent Justin from doing the same.  
  
During your entire inner death match, you were holding Justin’s free hand, and you ran your finger over the back of it and whispered into his hair, “ _You’re going to be okay. I promise._ ” He sat up a little straighter, let go of your hand, and without turning his head, reached up and touched your face, his hand falling away moments later. You relaxed a little bit and kept your eyes focused on him, staring at the intersection of his neck and the collar of his crisp white shirt until he moved, until you felt a considerable amount of weight lifted off your body. When you looked up, you saw why.  
  
He was leaning forward watching Harper as she walked with purpose to the front of the sanctuary.  
  
  
Poetry and prose excerpts included _Nature_ by Ralph Waldo Emerson, _The Buddha in the Womb_ by Erica Jong, _The Martyr_ by Herman Melville, _since feeling is first... (VII)_ by e. e. cummings, _Prisms_ by Laura Riding Jackson, _Humanity I love you_ by e.e. cummings, _i thank you God for most this amazing_ by e. e. cummings, _All Things_ by Laura Riding Jackson, _I Can Wade Grief_ by Emily Dickinson, _when god lets my body be_ by e. e. Cummings, _Walkers With the Sun and Morning_ by Langston Hughes, _I Have A Rendezvous With Death_ by Alan Seeger, _i am a little church_ by E. E. Cummings, _Nature_ by Ralph Waldo Emerson again, _Nothing So Far_ by Laura Riding Jackson, _Tell All The Truth But Tell It Slant_ by Emily Dickinson, _Nothing So Far_ by Laura Riding Jackson again, and _I Can Wade Grief_ by Emily Dickinson again.


	47. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 44-Transient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 8/19/10]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 44-TRANSIENT**  
  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_”Things can change in a week.”_  
  
Had you not attended Alan’s funeral that Friday morning, your life would’ve turned out markedly different as it set off a chain of events that you could’ve never predicted, a chain of events that made you comfortable with the man you are today. You felt something pop free inside you when Harper stood up, and though you weren’t exactly sure what it was; you felt like it had something to do with the hours you’d held her hostage in your old studio the day before grilling her about a bunch of nonsense. At least, it felt like nonsense now. As you watched her walk to the front of the sanctuary and stand behind the lectern, a weirdly peaceful feeling spread through your body. But every inch of you was starting to feel different by then. You felt oddly taller; you felt like your clothes might be a little too small; you felt like maybe your shoes might finally a real impression after every step…  
  
…the realization that the haphazard life you thought you led may have been a work of art in progress the entire time, a picture you were painting, blindfolded in the dark…  
  
It hit you hard when you let yourself really look at Harper that morning standing in front of everyone. When you stopped forcing her to be a mirror for you, a distraction for you, a buffer for you, you saw the fearless scaffolding shaking beneath her skin welded together with drive, talent, intuition, wit…the magnetic glue of loyalty and systemic generosity…often in the form of promiscuity.  
  
And because every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you looked at Harper and saw Brian. They were just alike. They both took care of people at all cost, found pleasure at all cost, sacrificed at all cost. Your throat began to tighten as you realized that you’d hiked seven levels beneath New York City to see the truth that was living right in front of you, splattered on the walls by a dead man no less. A dead man who knew you better than you knew yourself. You tried to relax and bring your mind back to the present before looking up at Harper as she spoke, **”I just want to thank everyone who’s here today.”**  
  
It was all she got to say that was scripted.  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
“ _I once wanted to be a priest, but I thought, how unnatural, living your life cloistered away in a roomful of men.”_  
  
One of the reasons you don’t attend church on a regular basis is because you always feel guilty the minute you walk inside one, and most of the time, you don’t even know why. Being in this particular place of worship made guilt extremely unavoidable since you were pretty sure God knew you were fucking his man of the cloth. And then you felt guilty for not having enough time to check in with Brian and Justin before arriving at the church that morning because you’d spent all of your time with Harper and then Dan, but each time you looked back over your shoulder, Brian would raise his eyebrows and smile at you, intimating that everything was okay. You found it much more difficult to get Justin’s attention, but under the circumstances, the fact that he was uber-focused on Harper who was at the podium was a good thing. You were surprised he even made it there.  
  
It was as if no one had even noticed Amelia hopping down from her seat next to Sam and making her way up to Harper until she was halfway there which is logical because Sam always spends most of his time ogling Harper anytime her legs are showing, so you weren’t really surprised when it was Harper who attempted to reprimand Amelia, **“Amelia—.”** Nor were you surprised when Amelia would have none of it, **“I’m ‘upposed to be like you today,”** and kept marching right on toward her mother. But Sam, always the dutiful husband and eager father figure, called Amelia back, and though Amelia had no intention of listening to Sam, she did intend to turn around and let him know that she was going to proceed with her own agenda, and that’s when everything that was supposedly planned for Alan’s funeral service was thrown out the proverbial stained glass window.  
  
*********************  
_”I'm not a child. I'm turning eighteen soon. That means I can vote, and get married, and join the army.”_  
  
If Harper was ever guilty of one thing as a mother, it was forgetting that Amelia should probably spend some time in the company of people her own age if for no other reason than she might know what children actually _are_ , and that morning it became achingly clear that maybe she didn’t because as she turned around to let Sam know she was going to disobey him, she saw her fellow congregates for the first time and professed to Harper with her tiny palms facing up to the heavens in confusion, **“Dhere’s _kids_ here, Mommy.”** The entire congregation shuffled in their seats and laughed a little. Amelia laughed just a little, too, which made everyone laugh a little bit again. **“They’re part of Uncle Alan’s family, just like you and me,”** Harper said to Amelia who was now frozen in the main aisle save her head slowly rotating from her mother to the kids and back again. **“Amelia,”** Harper said to get her daughter’s attention. Amelia turned toward her mother and announced, **“I already knowed that.”** Another rumble of laughter from the congregation.  
  
**“Amelia,”** Sam said, **“Come sit with me until Mommy’s finished.”** She would’ve ignored him completely, but he’d gotten up from his seat, and the minute he touched her, she turned around ready to inform him that she had no intention of sitting down with him until she saw who else was in the congregation and had been sitting behind her the entire time. She pushed Sam away with indignant force and looked back at Harper who by now was just leaning on the lectern with a bemused smile on her face. Amelia’s tiny hand pointed as if he was the toy she just had to have for Christmas, **“Mommy, Brime Kinney’s here, right _dere._.”** You turned around and looked at Brian again; he looked honored to be chosen.  
  
*********************  
“ _Not as long as I’ve got you to protect me.”_  
  
The last thing you expected was for Justin to come to the rescue, but he stood up, walked right up to Amelia, and then bent down to her eye level. You had to stand up a little to see him, but the next thing you knew, he was standing back up again with Amelia’s hand in his and walking with her to the front of the church. He sat down on the steps next to where Harper was standing and Amelia sat in his lap, perched proudly and staring at Brian with a huge smile on her face. You gave Brian a quizzical look, and he returned it. **“You’re ‘upposed to say words now, Mommy,”** Amelia informed her mother. Harper thanked Justin, and Amelia said, **“Welcome.”** Daniel elbowed you and whispered, “ _Don’t ever let Amelia fool into thinking she’s a one-man-woman._ ”  
  
“ _Clearly, she can juggle several at once.”  
  
“Just like her mother,_ ” Daniel laughed. The smile on his face, the comfort it brought you took you by surprise.  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’ POV**  
_”It’s always good to be part of a dynamic duo."_  
  
By the time everyone expected you to speak, you’d lost your train of thought, but then you looked up and made eye contact with Stitch and his brood and your thoughts returned to trains…of thought and of subways, to Alan, your brother…whose ashes were resting in an urn a few feet behind you.  
  
Amelia, though perched on Justin’s lap, wrapped one arm around your leg, leaning on you. She began sucking her thumb like perhaps you were about to tell her a bedtime story, and in a way you were because your thoughts had drifted back to your own childhood and away from the words you’d written and brought with you to say. You folded the useless paper in half, looked up and began to speak, **”Sometimes I think the true gift that children bring us is the immediacy of emotion. They never allow us to postpone a feeling; they never seem to fear the moment; they have little power to avoid it.”** Everyone seemed to sit up a little; you glanced down at Richard, and he smiled and nodded his head. **”When Alan and I were young, we spent all of our time trying to cultivate enough power to affect our situation, to figure out a way to make our mother smile when she was in the hospital, to make our father want to see her, to need her…like we did.  
  
“We were children; we didn’t believe in futility.  
  
“After our mother died, we were forced to grow up for the rest of the world, but we refused to grow up for each other. We told each other that our mother was in heaven teaching the angels to dance and sing the way we danced and sang for her; we loved each other the way our mother loved us.”** You stopped to wipe a tear falling down your face. **”When I look at all of you sitting here today, I’m comforted by the fact that each of you knows exactly what I mean, that all of you stand in for somebody who’s missing in someone else’s life and that all of you have someone else who does that for you as well.. I feel like I’m looking at a crowd of insulation, very _worried_ insulation.”**  
  
A restlessness seemed to fill the room, and then it bore fruit as you watched Daniel stand up, step over Sam and walk toward you. He sat down next to Justin on the steps at your feet and put his arm around him. Justin didn’t pull away.  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_”How’s my successful son?”_  
  
Your son, your suffering son at the front of the sanctuary, his left hand was resting in his lap; you imagined that you could see the tiny white scar on the back of his hand that he got the day he rode his new bike, training wheels and all, down the brick steps of your patio into your backyard. You remember telling him after he finished screaming bloody murder and attracting half the neighborhood to your house that there are two things he forgot about that day: common sense and gravity. Several years later when you tried to build him a tree house and ended up in your own emergency room because you fell off a ladder, Daniel sat faithfully at your side, lecturing you about, “Common sense and gravity, _Dad._ ” You ended up buying him a pre-fabbed one. Daniel stood outside the entire time supervising the installation crew. It didn’t dawn on you then that he had an ulterior motive for watching a couple of shirtless high school boys sweating for an hour. You thought his constant lemonade refills were just another one of his repetitive obsessions. Looking back on it now, his request for a ‘tree house upgrade’ every Christmas seems a bit tainted.  
  
But there was nothing tainted about what you were watching now, nothing but a wretched sadness pouring out of him. You turned to look at Alan, and he was curled up in a ball in his chair staring at his sister. “I feel like someone’s trying to rip my heart out of my chest,” you said to him. “Curl up and hold it inside,” Alan replied, “There’s nothing else you can do.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
“ _It’s about thawing his cold heart. It’s about bringing him back to life._ ”  
  
You were strangely proud of yourself as you watched the ceremony unfold because in reality, it was nothing like a ceremony at all. Justin was crying—not a lot, just a little, and you were relieved when you saw Daniel catch it before you did because maybe you were finally feeling your _own_ feelings before you felt his. And Justin, he wasn’t looking to you for help or relief or an escape route. Daniel whispered something to him when he sat down beside him, and he smiled a little, accepting the comfort, comfort that he fought so hard to deny himself during the previous twenty-four hours You were still wrapping your head around this when you saw Zeek out of the corner of your eye…. He was walking up there, too. You looked over at Gabe, and he shrugged his shoulders. Zeek sat on the steps next to Daniel.  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS’ POV**  
“ _You’re still a member of this family.”_  
  
**”I think Alan and I were determined to have more in common with each other than our tragic childhoods. I think that’s why independently from each other we became artists…painters. I prefer the brush; he preferred the can. I prefer the city and galleries; he preferred trains and tunnels…but somehow we knew that this was something positive that we shared that no one could ever take away from us. Alan used to tell me that art either moves through you or you move through the art, that as long as we kept creating, we’d never get stuck. Art was like currency to Alan; it greased the wheels of his soul.  
  
“Our lives were changing so fast these last few years. I got married, had a child; Alan became more entrenched in his underground life, and yet every time we saw each other, regardless of the reason, we lingered around easels. If my work wasn’t coming along, if he didn’t have something new to show me, we looked at Justin’s work or Sam’s photography and talk about that. That was how we framed our lives. I realize that now…the framing. We knew we had to do it to keep the pain and the loss in perspective. We had to contain it.  
  
“I don’t want his life to be any different now that he’s no longer with us. I want him to continue to linger around easels and have paint-stained fingers for the rest of eternity. I want every one of you to know that he loved you in the purest sense of the word. I used to think that Alan was a simpleton, scarred by losing our mother, but he was smarter than all of us.”** You unfolded the piece of paper in front of you and continued, **”Alan and I used to talk about Heaven and Hell, about meeting our mother again someday, that whoever got there first would make sure she could feel the love both of us still had for her. I know that he’s done that, and if he were standing with me right now, I think he’d want you to know that the only real Hell is the one we put ourselves through. He’d want you to know that Hell…is a man of god whose prayers seem to go unanswered, whose words seem to bring no relief. Hell…is a doctor whose tireless efforts won’t stop the world’s pain, who exhausts himself healing the sick to avoid healing himself; it’s an artist who cannot find a medium to adequately express what is felt or not felt, seen or not seen; it’s a man whose intimacy, care, shelter, and generosity is countered with horrific violence; it’s an entire community that loses its lifeline and has to read the newspaper to get the details, and it was a son who lost his mother, a sister who’s lost her brother, a mother who lost hope…  
  
“But most of all he’d want you to know that every bit of that Hell is temporary. It lasts only as long as you continue to visit it. I’m not going back there. I will remember Alan with a smile on his face and a pencil in his hand. I ask that you join me; I can’t frame this new picture by myself…”**  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”In a positive, life-affirming way.”_  
  
People were getting up out of their seats, coming from behind you, and you looked up at Jon who was pointing at the no longer pew-bound congregates who were making their way to the front of the sanctuary. It was Stitch and every child who’d been sitting with him, most still wearing their sunglasses as they made their way. “It’s okay,” Stitch said as they walked with him, “Go ahead.”  
  
You glanced back at Justin and Amelia was no longer in his lap; she was standing in front of him, bouncing in her little black shoes, her hand resting on his knee as if it was an anchor holding onto her while the tide of children came closer and closer. You watched as child after child handed a picture to Justin or Harper. Harper sat down next to Justin and listened as the children explained what they had made. Justin’s hands were filling up fast…  
  
*********************  
**STITCH’S POV**  
“ _I remember that boy. His murder was tragic, someone so young._ ”  
  
It didn’t dawn on you until after Alan was gone, until you tried to explain it to the children in your community, that they knew Alan’s art better than they knew him. He spent so much time upstairs living the other half of his life that to the children in your family, he _was_ the pictures painted on the walls of your home. They knew he was the one who brought food and clothing to your brood; he was a savior to them, rescuing them from the darkness they’d accepted as their home. The kids were rarely, if ever, brought upstairs in their daily life, so to them the tunnels they lived in were their world, and they couldn’t go far without being in front of something Alan had painted. His death only added to their skewed sense of his identity because his art would live as long as you could protect it.  
  
It was one of the older children, Brody, a boy of almost fourteen, who first started to draw when he learned of Alan’s death. Brody had real talent; he could almost handle a can of paint as well as a brush. He began to memorialize Alan’s tag on the wall in the kitchen, and the other children, most too young to handle spray paint, found paper and began to mimic what Brody was doing. They were at it for hours, perfecting Alan’s tag, the ‘alley-oop’, and as they learned that they were going upstairs to tell him good-bye, they worked at it even harder. So few of Alan’s pieces were solo works, the children were incorporating your tag and then Justin’s as well, and that was their offering on that Friday morning. As far as they were concerned, Justin was Alan’s brother as much as Harper was his sister. It would never occur on them to think of him in any other way.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
“ _You’re a little young for me._ ”  
  
You were so mesmerized watching Justin’s reception of the children that you jumped in your seat when someone tapped on your shoulder. You turned around to see a young boy about Gus’ age staring at you with a piece of paper in his hand. His sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck. He said his name was Greg as he handed you a picture he’d drawn of you and remarked, “I like your spiky hair.” You told him your name and he replied, “I always figured your name was ‘Hobbs.’” He paused for a second and then continued, “Because you were standing behind Justin in that picture; I thought you were supposed to be a ghost, but then I saw you in the tunnels, and I knew you were real.” “Yeah, everything got real really fast in those tunnels,” you said, and finally, he smiled. He looked as if he had something else to tell you, but his head turned to look at the little girl standing in front of you with crocodile tears in her eyes.  
  
_Amelia._  
  
She stood in front of you, defiant though her lower lip started to quiver. You leaned forward to pick her up, and she backed away from you. “Amelia?” you asked, “What’s the matter?” She sucked in a giant gulp of air and tried to tell you, “ _I_ draw-ded you a picture. _I_ draw-ded it with Faber Donnelly, but I borgot-ted it.” You looked down at the sketch in your hand, folded it and put it in your suit pocket. “It’s okay if you forgot it; you can give it to me later.”  
  
“But…I’m ‘upposed… to give it to you… right _now_.”  
  
“Amelia, I have the picture,” Sam said, his hand hanging over the back of the pew. “It’s right here.” The paper hung, folded in his fingers, but Amelia wasn’t assuaged, “But I borgotted it.” Sam pressed on, “And _I_ remembered it when you forgot it. You can give it to Brian right now,” he said. Amelia moved like she was in a daze, recalibrating her emotions. She handed you the picture, smiling through her fleeting sadness, ”Here, Brime Kinney. I draw-ded this for you.” You opened the picture to see your body stopping at the waist. _Perish the thought._  
  
“Your legs are on the back ‘cause dere so big,” Amelia explained. You turned the picture over and sure enough, the rest of you was still in tact. “I borgotted to make a picture for Waffle.”  
  
You smiled, “That’s okay. He’s trying to talk to you. See?” You pointed to Justin who was standing up now, his stack of pictures sitting on the piano. He was waving Amelia toward him, telling her to bring her rabbit. Amelia forgot all about you and went running to the end of your pew and then down the one in front of you where Sam was waiting for her, holding her rabbit. She snatched it from him as if it was in mortal danger and ran back to the front of the church.  
  
********************  
**ANDERSON COOPER’S POV**  
_”Thank you, CNN.”_  
  
By April of 2011, your formerly top-rated news program spent every morning sucking the ever-growing ratings dick of MSNBC’s Keith Olberman’s ten p.m. _Countdown_ rerun. The unseemly tall, fast talking, liberal Jesus was kicking your ass so badly that you’d stopped enjoying all the attention to your posterior. A few months earlier, you and your producers decided to throw a Hail Mary pass and revamp the focus of the show. It was, after all, the devastation and indifference you exposed in Hurricane Katrina, Haiti, and then the Gulf Coast that propelled you into ratings heaven, so you went back to your roots searching for that raw humanity. Your viewers had tired of interviews with politicians, moguls, and entertaining flash-in-the-pans. You were determined to take the news of every day and report it through the lens of an _every_ man. And it was working. Word on the street was that was leaning toward moving Shultz to eight and making Olberman go live at ten just to slow you down.  
  
On that particular Friday morning in April, you had a very hot story burning a hole in your Blackberry, and the story had more appendages than Medusa’s best headdress. Unfortunately, you also had as many factors working against you, number one being that you were _the_ Anderson Cooper, and sending one of your many minions to handle this recent development was out of the question because no one knew more about this story than you did. The odds of not getting scooped were in your favor. The odds of not getting punched in the face, however, weren’t nearly as impressive.  
  
There were many ways you could approach the subject (and subjects), but you figured your best bet was to go straight to the top. If you tried to circumvent Kinney, it would be over before it started. He was standing outside the cathedral smoking a cigarette, and then another and another while glaring right at your _CNN_ van. Finally, you ditched your _CNN_ hat and donned one that would hopefully make him less combative:  


 

  
(Let the record state that you were wrong about that.)  
  
He barely let you cross the street before he was standing right in front of your face, and he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a muscle-bound man that looked-or rather _smelled_ -a little too familiar. Your ass tightened as you tried to place him. He stood behind Kinney breathing in and out like a dragon. You were about to speak to Kinney when his goon darted out from behind him and got right in your face, “You need to get that news van out of here, douche bag. The chief promised us no press.”  
  
Kinney would have to wait. You spoke to the hulking figure the way polite, affluent people communicate, “I’m sorry, but I feel like we know each other?”  
  
The brute didn’t miss a beat, “I knew you when you were _paying_ three sixty, asshole.”  
  
You realized that you had to get through this low-budget Guido to advance your agenda, so you told him, “I can promise you, we’ve received no warnings from NYPD to hang back.”  
  
“Well, then, I’ll go get you one. The chief is still here; he’s inside the holy house.”  
  
“Why don’t you go do that, Zeek? I can handle him,” Kinney advised.  
  
“Whatever you say, Boss Man. Whatever. You. Say.”  
  
You watched as Mr. Muscles turned and went back up the church steps. Now, your work was really cut out for you. Kinney looked at you like you were a mentally-challenged Martian. You felt almost violated by his curious stare. “It’s good to see you, Brian,” you said.  
  
“No it’s not. What the fuck are you doing here?”  
  
“I’m working a story. That’s what journalists do.”  
  
“You don’t need to show up here to cover this story. This story is five days old.”  
  
“Maybe for some, but not for me.”  
  
“And why is that? Because I’m here? You think that makes this a more compelling saga?” he asked.  
  
You shook your head. Would the world always revolve around Kinney? Not if you could help it. “No, you narcissistic cradle-robber. I’m here to interview your better half.”  
  
(On second thought, maybe you could stand being punched in the face. Talk about ratings gold…)  
  
*********************  
_”I’m his muse.”_  
  
You were counting on Kinney’s competitive streak outweighing his possessive streak, and, admittedly, it was a treacherous wager to make. It took a little longer than you hoped for his curiosity to get the better of him, but you stood there like a steel statue until it did. “What business do you have with Justin?” he asked, clearly uncomfortable, “Surely you wouldn’t be this obtuse if you were plotting some sort of futile, vengeful conquest?”  
  
“Is that really the only thing you think he has to offer?” you replied. “Although…he did sleep with a shrink so he could have somewhere to plop his paintbrush, so I can understand why you get nervous when he’s around older men with more than one checking account.”  
  
“I’m going to assume for your own good that you didn’t come here just to insult me or my devoted piece of ass, so I’ll ask you one last time, ‘What business do you have with Justin?’”  
  
You reached into your inside jacket pocket and produced a brochure from an estate sale that you’d been hanging onto for several months. Kinney took his time examining it, desperately trying to keep his temper in check. “So, you have good taste in art,” he offered, “Big fucking deal.”  
  
“Oh, I have more than that, much more. Not only do I own this original now, I know it was recreated in the tunnels—“  
  
“Really? Who’s your source? A crack head?”  
  
“I have photographic evidence.”  
  
“So you paid that crack head a hundred bucks and gave him a disposable camera?”  
  
You ignored his challenge, “Secondly, the artist who painted it was murdered this week, in case you’ve forgotten what you’re doing here today. Thirdly, he was murdered outside the home where Justin painted this piece by men sworn to serve and protect.”  
  
“So what?”  
  
“So, I want to interview him.”  
  
Kinney laughed, “That won’t be happening.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I said so. He’s been through enough this week.”  
  
“So you take the ‘daddy’ in sugar-daddy pretty literally, huh?” you asked.  
  
……  
  
The fumes Kinney’s anger was giving off outside the church that day—ironically—stunk to high heaven; he was clearly terrified to let it out, but when he finally spoke, you realized that you’d gotten somewhere. “Fine. Take that fucking hat off. You know better than to wear that thing in public.” You obeyed. “Now, get rid of your van, go around the church and enter through the back door. That puts you down near the fellowship hall. Wait for us in the men’s room.”  
  
“Boy, if I had a dime for every time I dreamed about hearing that from you….”  
  
“Don’t push it, Cooper. “  
  
You readily complied.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_’No sex in bathrooms. That’s what the couches are for.’_  
  
Jon was standing in the doorway of the sanctuary when you went back inside. He held his hand up to stop you from going in. “What’s going on?” you asked.  
  
“Prayer circle, I guess.” You looked inside and saw Justin holding hands with Harper, Sam, Richard, Zeek and Daniel. Everyone’s head was lowered. “I think Harper wanted some kind of closure like this.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“How are you doing?” he asked you. “I ran out of time this morning and wasn’t able to come see you guys.”  
  
“I think he’s okay. We had a very long night.”  
  
“I can imagine. So did we.”  
  
The prayer circle broke, and Justin was looking around for you. You left Jon in the doorway as Justin started walking toward you. “I think we’re done,” he said. He had a roll of papers in his hand, the pictures from the children. He gave them to you to hold like you were now his human purse or something.  
  
……  
  
You were halfway down the stairs to the church fellowship hall when you realized that Justin not only thought you were pulling him away to fuck, he _wanted_ to fuck. He held your hand and hung back a little, a gesture that always _makes_ you want to fuck him. You tried to explain, “Justin, I’m serious. We’re meeting someone down here.”  
  
“Is he cute?”  
  
“No, he’s not cute.”  
  
“Then his ass must be tighter than a drum.”  
  
You always knew you were going to pay for your wicked ways, but this was not the way you thought it would go down…so to speak. You pushed him against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and decided to use his confusion to your advantage _after_ you kissed him. “Mmm ’kay,” he conceded, “If he’s ugly, we’ll just tell him to fuck off.”  
  
_(Are you there, God? It’s me…Monogamy.)_  
  
“All right, listen to me. Are you listening?”  
  
“And getting hard at the same time.”  
  
“ _Justin._ ”  
  
“What? You’re so hot when you’re pissed.”  
  
“Look, I’m serious. There’s someone in the bathroom who wants to talk to you.”  
  
“Who?  
  
“Anderson Cooper.”  
  
He busted out laughing, “Yeah, right.” You had no choice but to prove it to him, and the look on his face when you opened the door…well, he did a complete one eighty standing in front of Mr. Three Sixty. “O. M. G,. you’re really Anderson Cooper.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
Justin stared at Cooper, then at you, then back to Cooper before he spoke, “Well, fuck off. I don’t know what you’ve got against my partner, but you’re the last person I’d ever want to meet.” And then he turned to exit the bathroom and told you, “You’re right. He isn’t cute. We’ve got to get to the restaurant. I bribed Amelia; I told her if she behaved during the service, you’d sit with her at lunch.”  
  
Cooper was clearly less afraid of Justin’s wrath than you were. He called out to him, “Justin, I’m a big fan of your work. I own one of your paintings… _Unearthed._ ”  
  
Justin turned around on his heel and looked right through you, his interrogatory face front and center, “How did you get your hands on that?”  
  
“The original owner, the guy who bought it, Stan Abernathy, that ancient queen who frequents the gay psychiatrist circuit, he passed away a couple of months ago. I bought it at his estate sale.”  
  
“Is that so?” Justin asked, circling back to stand next to you. His attitude was making your balls invert.  
  
“Yeah,” Cooper admitted.  
  
“Well, I get it now,” Justin announced, his pointed finger practically drilling into your chest, “That’s why you hate him. He owns that painting. That’s what this stupid feud of yours is about.”  
  
You tried to defend and clarify the situation to no avail, “Justin, no, wait. I didn’t know about—“  
  
Cooper interrupted looking perplexed, “I don’t know what you mean by ‘feud.’”  
  
“Then buy a dictionary,” Justin suggested, once again turning to walk out the door.  
  
Cooper tried again, “Did it ever occur to you that your work speaks to people, Justin? You’re not the only person whose life has been riddled with senseless tragedy…like what happened to your friend…and you.”  
  
_O. M. **F.** G._  
  
The one good ball you had left was now residing in your throat. It wasn’t nearly as tasty as you’d always promised the boys on their knees. “Excuse us for a minute,” you told Cooper and then pulled Justin outside the bathroom. His arms were folded across his chest; he was staring at his shoes. You put your hand on his shoulder, “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. I just wanted it to be your decision.”  
  
“I don’t understand. You _hate_ him. Why are we even standing here?”  
  
“Because…you told me that once you put your artwork out there, it’s out there. I shouldn’t care where it ends up, right?” He nodded so you continued, “He says he has photos from the tunnel of that same painting. I don’t know who he got them from, but I thought…maybe…”  
  
“He can’t air those. Their community will be completely exposed,” Justin said.  
  
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell him to fuck off. Maybe _you_ can talk him out of it?”  
  
“I really thought you wanted to fuck,” he laughed.  
  
“I’ll fuck you right in front of him if it will make you happy.”  
  
“Maybe later,” he conceded, and then pulled something out of his pocket and put it in your hand. You figured it was a condom, but you were wrong. “What the fuck is this?” you asked.  
  
“A handi-wipe. I found them in our suite; I thought they might come in handy.”  
  
“No pun intended?”  
  
“Oh no, I intended that,” he reassured you.  
  
“You think you can seduce me with travel-sized toiletries and the promise of getting to wipe your ass when we’re done?”  
  
“Yes,” he said matter of fact-ly.  
  
_Why is he always right?_  
  
…  
  
Cooper poked his head out the door of the men’s room, “Any chance I can come out now?”  
  
Justin asked you for a pen and one of your business cards and scrawled his cell phone number on it, handing it to Cooper, “I’m going to be busy until approximately four o’clock. Call before then and you can forget it.” Cooper immediately returned the favor, handing his card to Justin, “I’d appreciate any time you can give me. Truly.”  
  
“I’m not promising you anything.”  
  
Cooper offered you a cautious, but appreciative gaze along with, “I understand that.” Then Justin started walking back to the stairs, pulling you right behind him. He stopped you at the top, a hand to your chest, “Brian, oh my god. Anderson Cooper just _asked_ us if he could _come out._ ”  
  
You laughed, “About damn time, isn’t it?”  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
_”It’s going to be a bumpy night.”_  
  
Richard sat directly across from you at lunch and said nothing aloud aside from the basic pleasantries. You knew he was mad at you. You also knew it would have to ‘til later. Nate and Sarah were at your table as well; you had no clue where Daniel had disappeared to. Brian sat across from Amelia at the booth in front of you; she was still beaming brightly from her booster seat like a lighthouse bringing a lost ship home to port. Sarah complimented Richard about the service, “It was very nice. Very nice,” the way people compliment you when they don’t mean it. “I think you need to thank Harper,” Richard said, and then he decided to look at the shaker of grated parmesan rather than you.  
  
“We have to leave soon,” Nate said to no one in particular, “We’re flying back tonight.”  
  
You chewed your salad (sans dressing) and looked to your left at the three tables pushed together to seat the women and children from Alan’s community. Justin, Harper, and Sam were sitting with them. The conversation was lively. Zeek was a very entertaining waiter for kids that had probably never eaten in a public restaurant. He sat in a booth with Stitch after he’d served all of them. Stitch was inhaling his food.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”If that’s what you want, go find yourself a pretty, little girl…_ ”  
  
It had certainly not been your intention to drag Amelia out of her seat for a smoke break, but Justin ignored your repeated signals that you needed one, so you took her with you; cigarette in one hand, her tiny hand in the other. “See the fire ‘gin, Brime Kinney,” she requested, so you flicked your lighter one more time and then put it back in your pocket. “Did you have a good lunch?” you asked her, and she nodded dutifully from her prized position. “I had a beatball,” she said. “And noodles,” you reminded her.  
  
“’You borgotted to have noodles like me,” she informed you.  
  
“No, I didn’t forget. I had salad.”  
  
“Yeah, I already knowed that.”  
  
……  
  
“Brian, we’re leaving,” Nate said as he and Sarah joined you outside. “Yes, we’ve said our goodbyes,” Sarah said, “Just one more to go.” She bent over to address Amelia, “It was very nice to meet you, Amelia. I had fun shopping with you.”  
  
“Yeah….”  
  
“And I enjoyed your dance at the church. You’re a very good dancer, you know.”  
  
“I’m sure she already knows,” you said, “Don’t you?” You attempted to pick her up, but she pushed you away so she could dance for Sarah one more time. She ordered you to clap when she was finished. “Can I pick you up and hug you good-bye now?” Sarah asked Amelia, and Amelia nodded, holding her arms up. Sarah scooped her up, fussed all over her, and then handed her to you. You thanked Nate for coming on short notice, for everything, watching as he and Sarah pulled off in their limo. Amelia waved, her hand in a fist. You knew something was up; she was far too young to know how fabulous a fist could be.  
  
“Show me your hand, Amelia,” you said, and she opened it for you, hanging her head over your shoulder pretending she was ashamed.  
  
She’d swiped one of Sarah’s earrings.  
  
*********************  
_”Shouldn’t you be getting back to your boyfriend?”_  
  
“I think you’ve smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, and it’s just after noon,” Justin remarked, bumming one off of you before they were all gone. “I’m trying to set a good example for the little lady, here,” you said, pointing down to Amelia. Justin informed her that cookies were being served inside, and she immediately abandoned you, reaching up high for the door handle. Justin opened the door for her, and she left you alone with him; your fleeting relationship shattered by the promise of ‘besert.’  
  
“You doing okay?” Justin asked you.  
  
“Yeah. You?”  
  
He smiled, “I feel kind of good. I probably shouldn’t feel that way at a funeral, but I do.”  
  
“Don’t shrug it off,” you told him, “Let yourself feel it.”  
  
“I know, but it’s hard.”  
  
He had a glow about him. “Tell you a secret?” you asked.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
You moved in closer and pulled him against you…just a little…”You’re ungodly hot when you’re almost happy.”  
  
He whispered into your neck, “ _I already knowed that._ ”  
  
*********************  
_”Stop selling yourself as a hero, and start selling yourself like a man._ ”  
  
The afternoon was all planned out. You were all making a final pilgrimage to the same place, to what had been Harper’s and Justin’s and then Sam’s first studio, Stitch and his brood wanted to repaint the concrete wall right outside the door and dedicate it to Alan, and he wanted Justin and Harper to join them. “I need to go back to the hotel and change,” Justin said, and you shook your head, “Don’t worry about it. You have jeans that cost more than that suit. Run with it.”  
  
“But it will ruin it.”  
  
“Then ruin it proudly.”  
  
He smiled at you, handed you his jacket as you were now his personal coat rack, and asked, “How much cash do you have on you? I need to buy a lot of paint.”  
  
You pulled your wallet out and handed it to him, “Take whatever you need.”  
  
He took several bills. “We’re going to walk there, okay? Harper wants these kids to over-dose on sunshine.”  
  
“Do _I_ get to O.D. on Sunshine later?”  
  
“…oh, ‘cause you want to play doctor again?”  
  
_God, I feel so sick.._  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
_”Well, since we’re related, wanna tell me what’s going on?_ ”  
  
Lunch had been over for fifteen minutes, and you hadn’t seen Gabe in twenty. Your parents were leaving; their generosity more than appreciated. Lana had amazed you with her customer service, helping you feed every hungry child until they were too full to pop. She bagged up all the extra cookies and gave them to go bags, and then started wiping down tables and dragging them back to their rightful spot. She made you hard every time she bent over to straighten the condiments because you could see right down her shirt. “Lana, that’s good enough. You’re more emasculate that my brother.”  
  
She smiled proudly; her nipples were hard, “I think you mean _immaculate._ ”  
  
“Have you seen, Gabe?” you asked her.  
  
“Nope. Not for a while. Maybe he left with everyone else.”  
  
“He wouldn’t do that. He can’t breathe unless everything is absolutely perfect.”  
  
“Call him,” she suggested.  
  
You pulled out your phone, tapped his name, and then listened as the theme from _The Devil Wears Prada_ rang out. You followed it to the door of his old office which your mom and pop had mostly converted to storage. You knocked, the back of your fingers on the wooden door, “’Cakes? Are you in there?”  
  
No answer.  
  
You tried again, “Yo, Gabe? What are you doing?”  
  
“ _Nothing…,_ ” came the faint reply.  
  
You tried the door but it was locked. “Open the door. What’s the matter? You got really bad gas from the salad?”  
  
“ _Just go,”_ came the response. _“I’ll take care of it. I’ll lock up._ ”  
  
*********************  
**GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
_"No apologies. No regrets."_  
  
_half an hour prior…_  
  
You’d kept your rightful place in the kitchen. These weren’t exactly your friends; you were here for Zeek, but he seemed to be doing fine. He’d never been more helpful. He and Lana were expediting like crazy people. You were so focused on making sure everyone’s portion of lasagna was the same size that you almost sent a piece flying through the air when someone tapped you on the shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry,” the intruder said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” You put your spatula down and turned around to face him. He was barely taller than you; he blinked rapidly behind his round glasses as he spoke, “You’re Zeek’s brother, right? Your name is…Gabriel?”  
  
“’Gabe’ is fine. Yes, he’s my brother. You must be Daniel?”  
  
The man smiled in that reassuring-pharmacist-on-television kind of way, “Yes, Daniel Cartwright.”  
  
“I’d shake your hand, but my hands are…”  
  
“Dirty?” he asked.  
  
It embarrassed you, “Yes. I’m cooking.” Like, _duh._  
  
“I was just wondering if we could use these plastic forks and paper plates, so there wouldn’t be so much to clean up?” he asked you, pointing to a stack of disposables on a cart by the kitchen door. “Uh, yes. Feel free. That’s a much better idea.” His eyes were brown like really-expensive-coffee. He left with the cart, and a few minutes later he pushed it back in, the bottom shelf stacked with the plates you’d originally set out for everyone. He walked up right next to you with a stack of paper plates. “You can put the lasagna on these, and I’ll pass them on to Zeek,” he said.  
  
You moved like a robot, carefully cutting and placing each piece on each plate. You didn’t care about the lasagna anymore. Your new friend stayed in the kitchen with the last portion, leaning against the stainless steel counter while he ate; his tie flipped over his shoulder. You felt self-conscious in your dirty apron, something you usually wore with pride.  
  
“You’re a good man, coming up here and doing all of this for your brother,” he said. “Did you know Alan?”  
  
You shook your head, too embarrassed to admit that you’d thrown him out of this very restaurant the first time you met him. It took a minute for the rest of your memory to come back, to orient you to the man who was eating your lasagna, but eventually, the words and feelings came back around. “I’m…so sorry for your loss. What you must be going through…. I can’t even imagine.”  
  
“Well, that makes two of us. I’m trying not to imagine it myself.”  
  
That was the moment your manners found you floating, lost at sea, “Would you like a glass of wine?”  
  
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”  
  
You opened the bottle anyway. “Forgive the Styrofoam cups,” you said as you poured the liquid into two cups. You’d emptied two thirds of the bottle.  
  
“This isn’t bad,” he said, and then he quickly corrected himself, “I mean…for a Styrofoam cup.”’  
  
“We sell a ton of it,” you said, “Although usually in actual glasses.”  
  
“I don’t want to keep you from your brother,” Daniel said apologetically, “I know you came here to see him.”  
  
You laughed, “We’re always better when we’re in separate rooms; trust me.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“Oh…well…I’m an only child.”  
  
“I often wish I was,” you confessed.  
  
“You two couldn’t be more different.”  
  
You smiled, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”  
  
The bottle of wine was soon empty, abandoned in a recycle bin.  
  
*********************  
“ _We’re stripping for charity here._ ”  
  
Your office was filthy, caked with dust. Your stapler was where it was supposed to be, not, thank god, hanging from the ceiling. Even your scissors were resting comfortably in your leather, monogrammed pencil cup. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like John-John?” Daniel asked you.  
  
“Actually, yes,” you admitted, suddenly embarrassed.  
  
“It’s true.”  
  
“It’s tragic…what happened to him.” And as soon as you said it, you realized that you were much closer to a much more personal and tragic situation and regretted your words. Somehow he read your mind. “It’s okay,” he said. Somehow he was leaning on you; his skin was soft and warm and felt like something you couldn’t afford, something you’d always dream of. “ _You smell good,_ ” you whispered, embarrassed that these things were even coming out of your mouth. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, and your heart (that was suddenly in your pants) started to throb. And as if he sensed your nervousness, he added, “It’s okay. There’s nothing to clean up, remember?”  
  
_Yeah, except the mess we’re probably going to make,_ you thought. He kissed you without permission, and somehow it made the zipper on your pants give up the fight and go down like a broken freight elevator. _Oh my god._ Your thoughts were pounding between your ears; they began to get thicker, like a persistent fog that didn’t want you to see what was about to happen. “ _No,… your… pants,_ you screamed in your head when he started to kneel down. “Daniel, don’t. The floor, it isn’t clean.”  
  
“And for once, I don’t care,” he replied.  
  
“Look, this is probably grief talking,” you told him when he freed your cock from your underwear. His hair had less gel in it than you expected. It felt alive.  
  
“And I’m not listening to it,” he said, “I’d much rather listen to you.”  
  
You moaned on cue.  
  
It was, after all, the polite thing to do.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
“ _That’s for the boys at the precinct._ ”  
  
The truth about ashes is that they get all over everything no matter what you do; they feel like top-of-the-line cat litter available only to movie stars and drug dealers. They smear your hands like charcoal and yet, mix amazingly well with paint. Harper insisted that there was no place Alan would rather be than inside a painting. “So, that’s where I’m burying him,” she told you with a smile on her face, “And so are you.”  
  
You finger-painted with a zeal that had escaped you for months, your hands coated with the ashy red evidence.  
  
*********************  
**JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
“ _Pain management._ ”  
  
When Daniel reappeared at Sam’s studio, you were happy to see him, but something was clearly amiss. The dark gray sadness that had nested beneath his eyes all week was gone, evaporated. You had to know why…and how…he made that so stuck feeling disappear. He didn’t hesitate to give you an answer, “I just blew Zeek’s little brother.”  
  
You felt faint.  
  
And completely out-shrinked.  
  
*********************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
_”You were touching yourself, and you didn’t call me?”_  
  
You felt Lana up one last time and then watched her get into a cab and drive away. Your cigarette was freshly lit when Gabe finally emerged from the restaurant. You gave him a long, vertical gaze before observing, “Your pants aren’t zipped, ‘Cakes.”  
  
“Oh shit.”  
  
The look of his face when he realized you were shitting him…  
  
“So, you were slapping the old salami, huh?”  
  
“I wasn’t the one slapping it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your own business.”  
  
“We have to get to the airport. Our flight is in a couple of hours.”  
  
“You’re going with me?” he asked, “You’re bouncing tonight?”  
  
“That I am.  First person I'll probably bounce is Rube for blowing up my fucking phone.  This is redunkulous."  You cursed under your breath as you looked at all the texts he'd sent you that morning.  
  
"You mean 'ridiculous,'" Gabe admonished.  
  
"The fuck I do."  
  
"He can't help it, Zeek.  You forget, he's a twin.  He feels incomplete when he's alone."  
  
"WOW.  Suck a shrink's dick and suddenly you are one."  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_”The nurse's station. I used to think it had something to do with radio. 'All nursing, all the time.'”_  
  
Most people are afraid of being alone in real life, but you were dead and stressing out because you were alone again, wandering the halls of your old hospital, a tug in your chest pulling you toward the Nurse’s Station. Tate and Madeline were dressed in old-fashioned nurse’s uniforms, the ones with the little white caps. Tate met you at the counter, her plea almost torturous, “ _Where_ is Alley?”  
  
“I don’t know,” you said, “Somehow I lost him. We got separated. I don’t know.”  
  
“Well, where were you?” Madeline asked like you were clearly stupid. She stuck a glass thermometer in her hair.  
  
“At the church, at his funeral,” you tried to think, “And before that, the subway.”  
  
“Well, _think_ ,” Tate demanded, “Think harder because I can’t find his records anywhere in this damn hospital. It’s like he’s gone for good.”  
  
And then like a fog the memory re-emerged, “In his seat…at the church…after he was gone…there was an open Bible in his chair. I remember now.”  
  
“We need more than that,” Madeline said, “This is an old hospital; we don’t have any fancy diagnostic equipment. All we have is you.”  
  
Ruth screamed out, strapped to the ECT table, “He’s not coming back!”  
  
**********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”Same interests? Same temperament?”  
“Same disease.”_  
  
By the time Daniel arrived at Justin’s old studio, he was clearly tired yet still intrigued by the creative grief spilling out of Justin and Harper. He came and stood next to you, almost a smile on his face. “He seems to be working through it, doesn’t he?” he asked you pointing to Justin painting furiously. You nodded, “I guess so. How ‘bout you?” Daniel’s gaze shifted to the ground in front of his feet, “I feel better now that the ceremony’s over, I guess.”  
  
“You were praying?” you asked him, your eyes focusing on the patches of dirt on his pants. He caught your glance and laughed, “Um, well…not exactly.”  
  
“Don’t feel bad,” you told him, “Some people spell ‘god,’ ‘d-i-c-k.’”  
  
“Is that right?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, we all worship in our own way.” And then you did some very quick math in your head and coupled it with the fact that you’d just had lunch in a restaurant where Gabe wasn’t hovering over you, refilling your water glass the entire time so he had to be _somewhere_. “Um, Gabe, huh?” you asked.  
  
Daniel laughed a little, “It’s not polite to suck and tell.”  
  
You slapped him on the back, “You take that ‘heal thyself’ code to heart, don’t you? Good for you, doc.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at you and your theatrics.“I’ll probably just throw these pants out,” he said, “Or donate them. I doubt I’ll want to wear them again.”  
  
You were proud of him, “I’d highly recommend it. I have extensive experience with emotionally damaging formal wear.” Daniel nodded, a sad expression on his face. “Look,” you continued, “This is gonna sound crazy, but thank you for looking after Justin…while he was here. Whatever happened, I don’t care; I’m just relieved that someone had his back, you know? That someone really cared about him.”  
  
“We all do. It’s not just me.”  
  
“I know, but you gave him a safe place to be; you were… _are_ …a real friend to him.”  
  
“His safety is really important to you,” he observed.  
  
You nodded, “You have no idea.”  
  
Daniel leaned against the building and sighed, “It was so quiet at my place when he left, and then I thought I’d have Alan around to make up the difference….”  
  
“I know what it’s like to have a quiet house.”  
  
“Yes, I guess you do. You’re a patient man.”  
  
“And you’re a _good_ man, Daniel. This doesn’t change-—“ You stopped talking in mid-sentence because you heard footsteps. Richard was walking toward you, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He barely slowed down to tell you and Daniel, “Bye, guys. Take care. I wish you the best.” Jon followed right after him, “Richard! Please, wait!” But he didn’t wait and he didn’t look back. He just kept on walking. You found yourself staring at the funny criss-cross marks on his pants….  
  
  
_Each section's opening quote is dialogue from Queer As Folk._


	48. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 45-Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 2/5/11]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 45-REMAINS**  
  
 **JONATHON MASSEY’S POV**  
 _”In ways that you can’t.”  
“In ways that I won’t.”  
  
Twenty-five minutes prior…_  
  
You were sitting on the futon in Sam’s studio; Richard chose not to sit next to you, opting instead for the upside-down orange milk crate on the far side of the room. His suit jacket was off and tossed over his lap; his sleeves were rolled up. He’d had enough. “I think you’re over-reacting, maybe,” you said, and he sighed. He looked up at you, his fingers resting on his face, his elbows on his knees, “I’m not the one over-reacting, Jon. You’re the one who chose to freak out because I read that poem.”  
  
“Richard, Allen Ginsberg is just about the _gay_ est author you could’ve picked.”  
  
“Why do you even give a fuck? Sitting there giving me the death stare the entire time.”  
  
“You know why,” you said because he did.  
  
“I really don’t think this is the time to have this conversation,” he told you, and then he got up and stared out the window at Justin, Harper, and the rest of the congregation. “Look at them, Jon. Going to town on that wall.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“That’s because of you, because you helped them.”  
  
“Perhaps,” you admitted.  
  
Richard laughed, a grunt almost, “’Perhaps.’ He was mocking you. In retrospect, you probably should’ve ignored it, but you didn’t. “All that contempt inside you, Richard. You know what they say, ‘if you love something, set it free….’”  
  
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Jon.”  
  
“Well, it’s gotten me this far.” And that was as far as it was going to take you. He turned around and looked at you, the expression on his face felt reminiscent of the _I’ve got bad news_ face that people wear on days like that one. When he spoke, you could already feel the reluctant freedom approaching. “Explain to me how I’m the one filled with contempt when you’re the one who detests every decision I make.”  
  
“That’s not true,” you tried.  
  
“Really? We get in a cab, and I sit too close to you. We’re in public; I hold your hand or touch you and get rebuked. I choose to read something at a private ceremony from a renowned poet who just happens to be gay, and you stare me down.”  
  
“You’re a fucking _priest,_ Richard. Can’t you just stick to the _bible_?”  
  
“It’s my church, and I’ll read whatever the fuck I please.”  
  
Your hands were tightening into fists, “Do you want it to remain _your_ church? There’s no such thing as _privacy_ when you’re a priest, and you know it.”  
  
“Maybe not, but there’s such a thing as free will and _my_ life, and if I want to quote poetic fags, I’ll do it. And if I want to hug my boyfriend in a hotel lobby, I’ll do it.”  
  
Your anger finally burst out of you, “And what about your career, your whole identity? You’re going to destroy it!”  
  
“It’s _my_ identity, Jon. I define it, and I decide what I want. You just can’t _stand_ the fact that I’m not gay your way—"  
  
“Oh, please.”  
  
“Oh, no. That’s what this is about. I’m not like you. I’m not going to pay thirty five dollars for a pair of socks. I’m not going to spend my life harboring a secret that I’ll only reveal to a narcissistic shrink who shaves his balls.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Fuck _me_? Fuck _you_ for only loving me when I’m in hiding. It’s your favorite part of this whole relationship. You get a boner every time you think that we’re fooling somebody. God forbid I come out, and you have to let the world see who you’re dating!”  
  
“You’ve been gay for three months, Richard. I’ve been gay all my life.”  
  
“I’ve heard that before. And now, it’s not enough that I work for God; I have to fuck him, too.”  
  
“I’m trying to protect you,” you said.  
  
“You’re trying to protect yourself…from the embarrassment, and don’t you _dare_ say you’re not embarrassed.”  
  
You couldn’t because it was true. You tried something else. “Richard…please, I love you,” and because it sounded so forced, you made the brilliant decision to add, “I mean it.”  
  
His voice got so, so calm, “Jon, you love the secret you want us to share, not me. And I’m sorry, but I’m just not invested in the secret like you are.” He put his hand on the doorknob, and then turned and looked at you again, “I’m really, really sorry.” And then he walked out.  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _”I just asked myself, ‘What would Brian Kinney do?’”_  
  
 _back at The Regency suite…_  
  
Justin was in the shower for-fucking-ever trying to scrub red paint off his hands, and the minute he was out, he was on your case, “ _I’m_ wearing a black shirt, Brian. You need to change. We’ll look like dorks.”  
  
“I’m not changing. You need to wear that light blue button down; you’re going on television. Don’t wear black.”  
  
“I look hot in black.”  
  
“Justin, I dress people for TV all the time. Black shows lint. Can’t you just listen to me for once?”  
  
“Fine. You win.” You were staring out the window, a glass of whiskey curled in your fingers he asked you, “So what the hell happened with Jon? They broke up?”  
  
“Apparently,” you offered.  
  
“Why?”  
  
You ignored his question because you didn’t have an answer and asked him something instead, “So what did you and Cooper agree to?”  
  
“We’re going to talk about art and grief, with very little mention of Alan.”  
  
“Harper and Sam are going on with you?”  
  
“Yep. I told him it wasn’t negotiable.”  
  
“That means I’m babysitting, right?”  
  
“In the green room. You can watch me.” He was smiling-proudly-when he walked up to you, took your glass out of your hand and downed the rest of your whiskey. You pulled him into your arms and told him, “That idea I had; I talked to Zeek about it after lunch. I’m going to get those kids about ten light boxes, ones that double as ‘daylight.’”  
  
“That’s really nice of you, Brian.”  
  
“Their gray little faces; it’s just not right.”  
  
“Do I look okay?” he asked.  
  
“Beautiful.”  
  
“I’m asking you for real.”  
  
“And I’m answering you for real. You look fabulous. Make sure your wedding ring is very obvious when you’re on,” you told him.” He laughed. “I’m serious,” you continued, “Take it off and spin it on the desk or balance it on your nose or something. I don’t want anybody thinking you’re up for grabs… _Eggo._ ”  
  
And then you slapped him on the ass.  
  
*********************  
 **DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
 _”So what do you do when you realize you made the biggest fucking mistake of your pathetic, stupid life?”_  
  
 _early evening in Daniel’s home office_  
  
You can count on one hand the number of times that Jon’s been dumped by a lover. You wouldn’t even need any fingers on that hand except maybe your middle one. “Can I please turn on the light, Jon? This doesn’t feel therapeutic, this lone candle lighting the room. Feels more like a séance.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Fine, make yourself comfortable,” you said as you picked up a legal pad from your very precise stack, popped the lid off your pen and crossed your legs. “I just want to go on record saying that I think this is counter-productive.”  
  
Jon stretched out completely on your little sofa. “And I just wanna go on record saying that your ‘record’ has just been expunged.”  
  
“Oh joy, teenage-Jon. How I’ve missed him.” He couldn’t seem to settle down, and then you saw his hand slipping in his pants. “You’re not going to masturbate through this,” you warned him.  
  
“The only reason I let you pretend to be my shrink is _because_ you let me masturbate when we do this.”  
  
You decided to let him have his self-comforting ‘ritual’ considering his day had officially been for shit. “Perhaps we can channel Freud with this little setup and your hand in your pants?”  
  
“Fuck Freud.”  
  
Boy, this was going to be a blast. You attempted to reset the conversation, “It’s been quite awhile since we’ve done this. You’re not really one for the couch these days.”  
  
“I was getting laid, Dan.”  
  
“My mistake.”  
  
He turned his head and gave you a piercing look, “So how big is Gabe?”  
  
“I’m not the one on the couch.”  
  
“But you were the one on your _knees_.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we all worship in our own way,” you admitted.  
  
“You mean _grieve,_ ” he corrected you.  
  
 _That was almost too easy._ “Yes, I mean _grieve_.’ Let’s talk about that.”  
  
He flipped onto his side and engaged, “Okay. I want to talk about Alan.”  
  
“Go ahead.”  
  
“About _you_ and Alan. About what you were doing for him.”  
  
“I was just helping him like I’m trying to help you now,” you offered.  
  
He pointed to stacks of sketch pads stuffed under the sofa, “I want to look at these.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” you replied.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You know why not. It’s called ‘doctor-patient confidentiality.’”  
  
“It was working, wasn’t it? You were making real progress with him, weren’t you?”  
  
You sighed, “Why? Are you jealous? Are you the only person who’s allowed to help someone?”  
  
He laughed and kicked off his shoes, “How does a day like this even happen? We go to a funeral for a murdered friend; you suck off Zeek’s little brother; I get dumped by a fucking priest, and Justin gets to make it big on our television?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure he’ll be on everyone’s television. Not just ours.”  
  
“You helped him, too…Justin. You didn’t even realize it, did you? Because of you, Harper, Sam, and Justin are going to hit the fucking big time tonight. I mean, look at it this way: you exorcised four people’s demons and only lost one of them. That’s a seventy-five percent success rate.”  
  
Did he really have to go there? It made you wonder aloud, “Why does it have to be this way? They either succeed beyond their wildest dreams or die a horrible death?”  
  
“That’s _not_ your fault, Dan.”  
  
“I tried to give him a key so many times. I tried to hide a key for him, and he wouldn’t let me…”  
  
“Why? Because of Stitch?”  
  
“Alan wasn’t comfortable. He felt like it would compromise me somehow.”  
  
“He was probably right. That was a very bizarre relationship, the two of them.”  
  
“Like yours and Richard’s?” you asked, wrestling the session back to its intended focus.  
  
……  
  
……  
  
A tense cloud of angst hung in the air between you for awhile before Jon spoke again, “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t people like the way I love them?”  
  
You tossed your pad and pen on the floor and leaned forward, folding your hands over your knees, “Jon, what happened between the two of you?”  
  
“Why can’t I be like Alan, just accept people the way they are and not feel like I have to change them?”  
  
“What couldn’t you accept?” you asked. He immediately turned to lie on his back again, his masturbatory fun fading away. He indulged himself with a dramatic sigh, his hands resting on his stomach when he spoke, “Dan, this is the Catholic church. A church made famous of late for molesting little boys. Explain to me how a priest just lets his homosexuality ooze out whenever it wants to and doesn’t understand the fucking implications of what he’s doing?”  
  
“You were worried about his career? About what would happen to him?” you asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did you tell him that?”  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”  
  
“I tried to let him know in subtle ways….”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
Jon’s voice became louder, his tone frustrated, “Why the fuck do _I_ have to let him know this shit? It’s common sense. You can’t just behave the way he behaves and not suffer the consequences.”  
  
“What consequences?”  
  
“What the fuck do you think? Public humiliation, defrocking, a horrific fifteen minutes of fame that never ends.”  
  
“Okay. Perhaps his positive feelings for you were drowning out the negative that you just described?” you asked.  
  
“They _were_. That’s my fucking point.”  
  
“Okay. So let me get this straight: Richard cared for you so deeply that he didn’t give a shit about what would happen if he was outed?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And no good deed goes unpunished?”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
You ignored his acting out, “Explain to me how a priest who prefers the vocal stylings of Dionne Warwick and _Three Dog Night_ over a gospel choir is capable of being any more embarrassed that he already is.”  
  
“I can’t explain it.”  
  
“Well, I suggest you try or I’m billing you for this waste of time.” Sometimes the best elixir for whatever is ailing Jon is a little antagonism. You waited for his answer much more patiently than he did. His hands were waving around in front of his face; his inner-effeminate was practically an endangered species. Seeing it was a bit like a Big Foot sighting; it was kind of scary and no one would believe you afterwards. “Jon, whatever it is, will you just fucking spit it out?”  
  
He sat up like he was possessed and yelled at you, “Jesus Christ, he’s a fucking priest. How many priests have stepped down in the last few years? A ton. Why? They’re child molesters. He steps down; word gets out that, oh, wow-ee, zow-ee, he’s homosexual, and bingo—“  
  
“You’re dating a supposed child molester? Is that what you think?”  
  
“And then word gets out that he is or was dating a fucking shrink, and that just makes it worse!”  
  
 _Honestly._ Jon has a way of complicating things that just don’t need to be complicated. “Jon, I’m going to ask this even though I already know the answer. Is Richard a child molester?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“You’re absolutely sure?”  
  
“Of course, I am. He couldn’t molest a fly. His heart is bigger than the state of Texas. His morals are even grander.”  
  
“Then why are you punishing him like he did?”  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _"In your own weird, subversive way, you’re not a bad father."_  
  
To say that Amelia enjoyed being in the green room at _CNN_ ’s studios would be a colossal understatement. Her ecstasy at meeting ‘Amerson Tooper’ was almost pathological considering she didn’t even know who he was. You figured she assumed Cooper was a long lost grandfather or something. You tried to correct her pronunciation of his name, “It’s not ‘Tooper;’ it’s ‘ _P_ ooper.’” That effort was beyond futile because Amelia had spotted a bowl of _M &Ms_. She immediately grabbed it and flipped it over, sending _M &Ms_ all over the carpet. You yelled, “Amelia!” before you caught yourself and she ran over to a sofa, buried her face in a cushion and started to cry. That was when you remembered Harper warning you, _”She hasn’t had a nap today, Brian. Just FYI.”_ You picked up the overturned bowl and sat down on the floor, leaning against the very sofa she was soaking with her tears. She kicked you and told you to, “Go ‘way, Brime Kinney!” Clearly she had no true understanding of how badly you take rejection, but you rose above it. Two minutes later, the _M &M_ game was in full swing, a game you and Gus used to play when he spent time with you at the loft. It more than made up for your lack of toys. You started by telling her, “Okay. I’m going to pick up all the blue _M &Ms_.” She pretended to ignore you as you filled the bowl. “Okay, I’m all done. See?” She lifted up her little puffy face, looked at the bowl, and then looked at you like you were mentally challenged, “Dose aren’t bue, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“They’re not?” You put on your very best ‘puzzled’ look, “Then what color are they?”  
  
“Dhey’re geen!”  
  
“Are you sure?” you asked her.  
  
She abandoned the sofa and started picking up blue _M &Ms_ for you. “Dhese are bue, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Boy, you sure know your colors. Help me find the blue ones?”  
  
And so the game progressed and eventually you’d pick up a yellow one and declare it orange, and Amelia would squeal with delight at your idiocy, “Dat’s lellow, Brime Kinney!” and on and on it went: ‘bue, geen, lellow, oranch, bown, and wed.’” By the time Justin’s interview was getting ready to tape, the two of you were creating a picture on the rug using the green ones for grass, the brown ones for a house, the blue ones for the sky, and carving out a space for the yellow ones to complete the scene with sunshine. You took out your phone and took a picture of it for her. She posed for about five more pictures, put all the _M &Ms_ in the trash, sat on your lap, put her head on your shoulder and her thumb in her mouth and promptly fell asleep. You took the opportunity to wander out of the green room and onto the set, standing far enough of the way with a very cute, drooling, zonked out bag of potatoes draped over your shoulder. Justin saw you and nudged Harper and you motioned to them that everything was fine, that Amelia was sound asleep.  
  
*********************  
 _”The ubiquitous Justin Taylor”_  
  
Justin was adamant that Harper was not one for teary good-byes and because Amelia was still asleep when they were done taping the interview, the parting was relatively quiet but heartfelt. You flew home that night. Justin let you have the window seat and slept for most of the flight, leaning on your shoulder. He was exhausted. A driver was waiting as you exited the airport. He drove you home through the dark country miles; Justin dozed off again, his head resting on your lap. He didn’t know that while he was sleeping, every screen in Babylon, every television at Zeal and the diner and at his father’s store were all tuned to _CNN_ watching him talk about what he’d just been through and what he’d gone through years before. He didn’t know that by midnight, the asking price for his paintings and of Harper’s and Sam’s art as well had already increased twenty percent…  
  
 _Anderson: “Harper, what can you tell us about your brother? I understand he was homeless?”  
  
Harper: “To us, yes. He didn’t have an address like we do, but he wasn’t ‘homeless.’ He lived in a community; he was loved and cared for; he lived with people he considered his family as much as I am.”  
  
Anderson: “I know you don’t want to go into too much detail about that, so I won’t press you. What can you tell us to help us get to know him?”  
  
Harper: “Well, he was an artist; he could sketch, draw, paint; he was a graffiti artist as well. The next time you see a Monet mural painted on the side of the subway train, think of my brother. He was that talented. He could reproduce almost any work of art—he and his fellow graffiti artists—from memory. It was absolutely amazing.”  
  
Anderson: “Where do you think that kind of talent comes from?”  
  
Harper: “I think it comes from an overwhelming need to make your own canvas, to revamp your world into one you can stomach and eventually thrive in. I think his talent came from the urge he had to figure out who he really was outside of what people thought of him. The more they scorned him; the more brilliant he became.”  
  
Anderson: “Justin, do you agree?”  
  
Justin: “Alan was one of those people who lived between worlds, literally and figuratively. I think that’s why the cops went after him, because he was comfortable anywhere. He didn’t mind the space in between. He never felt a need to close it.”  
  
Anderson: “Justin, you say that like you can relate to it.”  
  
Justin: “I think a lot of violence happens because people can’t handle someone who doesn’t fit exactly into their world view and doesn’t care that they don’t. I think, and this is just my opinion, that it pissed those cops off that Alan lived comfortably under--…in both worlds. He never sought to forsake one for the other. So yeah, I guess I can.”  
  
Anderson: “You were almost killed when you were a senior in high school—“  
  
Justin: “I was bashed in the head by another student wielding a baseball bat.”  
  
Anderson: “You were part of two worlds yourself? You think that was the reason you were attacked?”  
  
Justin: “I think that was part of it. When someone expects you to be a certain person and you violate their expectations…a lot of pain and violence is often the outcome.”  
  
Anderson: “You try to capture that in your work?”  
  
Justin: “I think it’s captured me….”_  
  
*********************  
 **JENNIFER TAYLOR’S POV**  
 _”Yeah, I know. I was there.”_  
  
During Justin’s time in New York City, your relationship with Brian morphed into a true friendship. He felt for you, missing Justin and all, and you (although you kept it to yourself) felt for him. He was a businessman making it in the world; you were a businesswoman making it in the world. He was the father of a son he loved but rarely saw, and you were the mother of one. You were in a ‘complicated’ relationship with a much younger man, and so was he. He was hot and…so were you. (You had to be considering how often Brian’s employees hit on you.) You threw business Brian’s way and he always returned the favor. So when he called you that Friday afternoon in April of 2011 and told you what was getting ready to go down for Justin, you hung up the phone and cried.  
  
Really _cried_.  
  
Because the hope you had for Justin was violently torn away from you, not once, but twice, and because you’d watched him struggle to draw again, to love himself again, to believe in himself again…. You’d watched him wrestle with the fact that the father he loved didn’t love him the same way. You’d owned so much of that grief, wanting to keep it far away from your beautiful, sweet, blue-eyed little boy--a futile effort all around.  
  
You walked into Taylor Electronics right before closing time and informed Craig that he needed to tune all of his televisions to _CNN_. You didn’t know it then, but it would make all the difference in the world.  
  
*********************  
 **BRIAN’S POV**  
 _”A husband, a family, a home…. All the things that make life worth living.”_  
  
You were standing in baggage claim in Pittsburgh when Justin’s interview aired. You sat on a metal bench and watched it with him. No one noticed him or made the connection. When it was over, you grabbed his suitcase and yours and headed for your limo. Once you were finally home, you unpacked your suitcases while Justin wandered around aimlessly in his studio. You started the laundry while he lay on his back in your bed staring at the ceiling, his fingers locked behind his head. You checked your email and found hundreds of them waiting for you but one from Cooper stood out; he thanked you for introducing him to Justin and for your trouble, sent you a link to a grocery delivery service recently incorporated into iWWINN®. You spent almost an hour registering the refrigerator, inputting all of your staple foods and seasonal choices, and scheduling the first delivery. Justin would be thrilled that he never needed to grocery shop again; you just wished you could think of a way to explain that to him that didn’t involve mentioning the refrigerator in the first place. You assumed he’d fallen asleep again because he never came and got you, but when you went to look for him he wasn’t in your bedroom, he was back in his studio sitting on the futon in the dark and staring out the window. You sat down beside him, your hand on the back of his neck. “What are you doing?” you asked.  
  
“Thinking.”  
  
“Want me to leave you alone?” you asked.  
  
“Not unless you want to,” he said, and you didn’t, so you stayed.  
…..  
  
…..  
  
“Marriage is harder than you think, isn’t it?” he asked you after several seconds of silence.  
  
“I prefer to think of it as a trial by fire but whatever works….”  
  
He crossed his legs and stared at his hands in his lap, wringing them a bit, “You know, I’m really glad that you’re older than me.” You didn’t know quite what to say so you just squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t know why you hate Anderson so much. He’s okay. He only tried to hit on me once.”  
  
 _Once?_  
  
“Um, excuse me. When did this happen?”  
  
“I don’t think he was really hitting on me; I think he was just trying to break the ice and get me to loosen up a little.”  
  
“What did he say?” you asked.  
  
Justin laughed, “He just asked me why I have a thing for older men.”  
  
 _Oh no, he didn’t._  
  
“What’d you say?”  
  
“I said, ‘I didn’t marry Brian because he’s older; I married him because he’s unfuckingbelievable between the sheets,’ and then I tried to raise my eyebrow like you do, but it didn’t work. He asked me if I was getting a headache or something.”  
  
He made you laugh. “You did a good job showcasing your ring during the interview. I almost felt like I was watching _QVC_.”  
  
“Yeah, really. Wonder what the ‘Q’ stands for…?”  
  
……  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“My dad; he’s been calling me…leaving messages.”  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Says he saw my interview, that he’s proud of me—"  
  
“Wow…nice.”  
  
“That he wants to hang one of my paintings in his office at work.”  
  
“Did you talk to him?”  
  
“No…because the only thing I can think of to say is, ‘You better buy now because my prices are only going up.’ That’s shitty, huh?” he asked.  
  
“It’s kind of funny, actually, and more than understandable.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“So why are you glad that I’m older than you?” you asked trying to steer the conversation back to its original intent.  
  
He laughed a little, “Because as much as I hate to admit it, we’re not on the same emotional level. Sometimes I think you’re much more mature than I ever give you credit for.”  
  
The compliment felt a bit suspicious to you, like those non-reciprocal blow jobs he he insists on giving you. “Um, thanks.” And then you began to see the picture coming into focus. “That feels like less of a compliment for me and more like you putting yourself down,” you told him.  
  
“Was my interview really okay?”  
  
“Don’t change the subject. What’s bothering you?”  
  
……  
  
“You know when I told you about going back to St. James? About being in the locker room again?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“My world, my mind, it’s like it’s frozen in time…even after all these years, but time has changed things.”  
  
“Like what? A new coat of paint?” you asked.  
  
“No, like real change. The janitor, the guy who recognized me when I went in there, he started talking to me, telling me that gay kids have a much easier time there now. That they can bring whomever they want to school events. That they have a voice on the student council and stuff.”  
  
“Something good came out of what happened to you.”  
  
“To _us_.”  
  
You nodded, “To us, right.”  
  
“I was so determined to keep all of it inside me, and things happened anyway. I never really thought about that.”  
  
“You had more pressing things to think about, like getting better and keeping me sexually satisfied.” He smacked you in the stomach. “Well, you’re very good at it. That’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“We were so worried about each other, you know?”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I have mixed feelings about being back here,” he admitted.  
  
“It’s okay. I figured you would.”  
  
“It’s not you or us; I just feel so fucking unsettled. I can’t stand it.”  
  
“It’s okay, Justin. You don’t have to be perfect to be here. Be whoever you need to be.”  
  
“You know what’s funny?” he asked you.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That I always thought that all the work had to happen before we got married; I never thought we could work through something…like this…together.”  
  
  
  
 _Each section's opening quote is dialogue from Queer As Folk._


	49. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 46-Establishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 12/26/11]

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 46-ESTABLISHMENT**  
  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_”It’s one-thirty in the morning, and I’m horny as hell .”_  
  
_thirty minutes later…_  
  
The two of you were freshly showered as floss hung from your teeth, Brian’s hands roaming around inside your underwear, your only apparel at the moment. “Can you just give me a second?” you asked leaning towards the mirror. “No,” he replied, palming your ass. You couldn’t exactly blame him; you wanted to be back in your own bed as much as he did. Eventually, your butt pushed him away (first time for everything), and he acquiesced, taking refuge in your bedroom. You stood in the doorway for a second just to take in his long body lying in wait for you. He was hard, stroking himself, his eyes almost closed. The light extinguished, you joined him on cool sheets. His position in bed dictated yours as he lay on his side; you curled up against him, your back to his chest, your head sharing his pillow.  
  
“Did you unpack your suitcase?” you asked him in the blackness of your room. “I’ll do laundry tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes, mother. Both suitcases.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
……  
  
He kissed the back of your neck, your hair still a little damp. “You’re really tired,” he said softly.  
  
“Kind of,” you admitted.  
  
He began to move you…slowly…skillfully…until you were facing him. “C’mere,” he said like you weren’t already right there, and then he kissed you and everything else in the room got even stiller than before. This was a homecoming. Fortunately, you were undressed appropriately.  
  
When the kiss continued for more than a minute, the message Brian was sending you decoded in your mind. “Mmm,” you said, your palm pressing on his chest, “Get it. Please.” He smiled and warned you to close your eyes as he rolled away and clicked on a tiny lamp. A drawer opened, and you listened as he rummaged through everything until he found what you wanted. The light was extinguished, and the plug was between you. “It’s this one,” he said so you could familiarize yourself with it. You ran your fingers down the cone shape. You began to roll over, but Brian said, “Uh huh, this way,” so you stayed where you were, wrapping your leg over his. He closed the space between you and whispered, “ _Love you,_ ” as he worked the toy inside you using your breathing as a guide to speed up or slow down. “Don’t hold your breath,” he urged you, “Let everything flow.” You exhaled against him as you felt it disappear inside you. You hugged him so tightly; your eyes closed as his fingers ran through your hair. “Okay?” he asked. “Okay,” you agreed.  
  
The kissing began again. Only this time he was toying with you, pressing on the base of the plug until you feared, “Don’t. Don’t. I’ll come.”  
  
He laughed, “Okay. Relax. You can drive now.” You tried to urge him onto his stomach but he wasn’t interested in that either. “No, like this,” he said.  
  
“You’re particular tonight,” you teased him.  
  
“I just want what I want when I want it,” he said as he rolled onto his back. “Sound like anyone you know?”  
  
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”  
  
“I’m going to fold you like origami,” you warned him as you settled between his legs, his knees bent high on either side of your shoulders. He kept one hand in your hair and the other curled around his ass, opening himself up for you. You felt a hard tug in your hair when you licked him, wetting him generously. He released a string of profanities designed to thank you. You envisioned your first night with him when you fucked him, your bodies reversed, his fingers pressing on your plug as you fell deep inside him. For as tight as he is, he feels endlessly deep when he finally relaxes for you letting you fuck this cozy warm trap on the edge of the universe. Brian grabbed the back of your neck, squeezing tightly and holding you down as the pleasure escalated, breathing beside your ear, “ _I want this. Want to feel you come._ ”  
  
“Close your eyes,” you told him, burying your face in his neck, moaning deep as you granted his wish.  
  
“Justin, fuck. Don’t…move. Stay…here. Oh…Jesus.”  
  
Seconds later you felt a warmth spill out between you. It was good to be home.  
  
*********************  
**DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
“ _Eternities aren’t as long as they used to be.”_  
  
It wasn’t your fault that Alan was gone, but you were bearing the brunt of it. Ruth was hysterical with another round of grief and Emma and Sandra were seething, blaming you for the fact that the televisions and the kitchen were gone. ‘I was _watching_ him,” Emma said, “My son. I could see him in that church. Get him back.” But you couldn’t, and you told your bewildered zombie confidantes, “After the ceremony, Alan took me to the tunnels. I saw where he used to live, and then we went to the trains. We sat in his favorite car, one of the last ones he painted.”  
  
“We saw none of this,” Tate said.  
  
“And then what?” Emma demanded.  
  
“Well, the thing is, I saw James, his father. He was there in that car, passed out from drinking.” Ruth stopped wailing and began to actually listen to you. “You saw my husband?” she asked.  
  
“Yes. We watched him for as long as we could, but then the train started moving….” you paused because you didn’t quite know how to explain the rest, “I mean, the next thing I knew, I was standing outside of a tunnel next to James who slumped on the ground with an empty bottle of whiskey. Alan was gone. That train, it took him away. I’m sorry. I guess this is all we have left,” you said, motioning to the wall in front of you. Ruth started to collapse; Leo caught her as she screamed, “He’s not coming back! Just like Jason; he’s gone forever.” Tate gave you a stern look and then offered the same expression to the painted wall in front you. “You came back through that hole, Danny,” she said, her finger touching the odd section of the wall. Strangely, it was Madeline, the one with the least amount of real life experience who seemed to make sense of it, putting her cheek against the wall, “Alan’s in here. His body is in here. I can feel it. Touch it; it’s warm, like flesh and blood….”  


 

  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_”You infected him with your petty, bourgeois, mediocre, conformist, assimilationist life .”_  
  
It became very clear to you upon coming home that what happened in New York would never stay in New York. Your relationship with Brian was always punctuated with abrupt starts and stops, and ‘before and after New York’ became just another phase to add to the list. Life was different for both of you. Out of psychological necessity, you began attaching a certain regimen to your day and your activities, even if they only took place a few doors down from your bedroom. Your working relationship with PIFA morphed into being a possible guest lecturer in the future. You interviewed and hired a personal chef (Roger) to ensure that you didn’t have to spend any of your creative energy in the fucking kitchen. You made him come upstairs to your studio to plan the weekly menus. Management of the rest of the house’s staff fell to you as well as you were typically the one at home, so you soon became the CEO of a housekeeper, a pool boy, a chef, and a gardener. (You asked for a lifeguard, too, a naked one for the pool and were given an unequivocal no.) You reluctantly gave up your fight against being a housewife while Brian seemed to be embracing the working husband role more and more. Because Roger fixed dinner and served it (after all, you don’t pour your own wine unless you really _have_ to), you could spend that time reconnecting with Brian when he came through the door night after night. His briefcase usually slipped from his fingers to yours before hitting the floor; the kiss you gave him intended to help make the transition from work to home. Brian’s turmoil in New York was apparently no secret to anyone, least of all his employees. Secretly, you blamed Zeek’s big mouth for that and for the fatigue you felt beneath Brian’s skin. But knowing that he was coming home to you, whether exhilarated or exhausted, had its upside. For years, you longed to be the person Brian would rely on, and now you were.  
  
There are things you need to know about being married that no one teaches you. As a child, you think you’ll just grow up to somehow know these things, conveniently forgetting that most of the examples you had were less than stellar. It wasn’t until that summer, your first summer as a married couple that you actually felt truly relaxed being with Brian. Finally, you believed in your soul that he was where he wanted to be. And when that tension evaporated, you were initially kind of angry because it felt like a loss, like it’d fallen out of your pocket somewhere along the way without the common decency to leave a little hole so you could at least rationalize its absence. But now you could be around Brian and observe his occasional anger or disappointment with someone or something without feeling like you needed to fix it right away or drag him to Babylon as a distraction. For the first time, your relationship wasn’t on the line.  
  
And on top of all of this, there were no complaints from your bank account; your work was selling as fast as you could produce it, but there was something about that success that felt misplaced. What was the point of the process? What was driving your happiness: creation, marketing, profit, self-satisfaction or influence? Perhaps because you were married to Brian Kinney, perhaps because ambition was the main ingredient in almost everything he did, you found yourself plagued by the concept. It tortured you day-in-and-day-out, even as you booked more commissions than you ever expected. You thought about it while you were eating breakfast, while you were using the bathroom, while you were in the shower. It made you want to throw your head back and howl. You seriously considered charging these thoughts rent for all the time they spent lounging around in your head. On a Saturday morning in late May, Brian seemed to be unknowingly tapping into your conundrum. The two of you were lying in sweaty sheets, letting the morning’s fuck evaporate at its own pace. “I need a favor,” he said, your bodies having rolled allowing you to cool off on top for a nice change.  
  
“Okay,” you sighed, your head rising up and down with Brian’s breathing.  
  
“I’d appreciate it…. I mean, I need you to—"  
  
“What?” you asked, your head cocked in curiosity.  
  
“I need you to let the help call you ‘Justin’ and not ‘Mr. Taylor,’” he said, and then added, “Please.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Well, because when you’re unavailable for whatever reason, they call me with their questions, and they call me ‘Brian.’”  
  
“Well, good for you. I’m ‘Mr. Taylor.’”  
  
“Justin, it’s just kind of snooty. That’s all.” You rolled off of him and laid on your back. Brian sighed over-dramatically and then said, “Look, I tried to handle this for you. I told them it was okay to call you 'Justin—'”  
  
“You had no right—"  
  
“Shut up and let me finish. That it was okay to call you ‘Justin,’ and then Roger and Maria said to me on separate occasions that it absolutely was not okay. Do whatever you want with the pool boy; I know you hate him. Let’s just try to relax it a little with the indoor staff, okay?”  
  
“No,” you said, folding your arms in defiance.  
  
Brian rolled on his side and tried to reason with you, “Justin, you need to understand what it means to be wealthy.”  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“I’ve lived here for six years; the staff are accustomed to being treated a certain way. I don’t have a need to constantly remind them that I’m their boss.”  
  
“Okay, no pun intended, but that is rich coming from you. I’ve seen you at work. Hell, I’ve worked _for_ you, and I know exactly how you treat people.”  
  
“It’s not the same thing. At work, I’m the smartest guy in the room. This is my home. I don’t want that kind of environment. I have no desire to take over any of my domestic employee’s jobs so I like to keep them happy.”  
  
“ _Your_ home?” you asked incredulously.  
  
“Jesus, _our_ home. My sincere apologies.”  
  
You decided to take a real stab at him since he’d recently turned forty, an event you went to great and (almost) successful lengths to make sure _no one_ mentioned to him lest he purchase a robotic coffin, get in it and refuse to come out, “Well, I think this is just old age talking.” He yanked your pillow out from under your head and smacked you with it. You deserved it, and you were about to concede to Brian and his request when you thought of a very good reason not to. “Um, what about The Car? It calls you ‘Mr. Kinney.’”  
  
“Justin,” he said, exasperated with you.  
  
“And I’m pretty sure the fridge calls you, ‘Your Majesty.’”  
  
“Ha ha, and that is not the same thing.”  
  
“Why?” you asked because you wanted to hear this answer big time.  
  
“Because,” he said, hesitating before he capitulated and admitted the sad truth, “They’re not human.”  
  
Sometimes victories come at the oddest moments. You turned your head and gave him the biggest smile you could manufacture on short notice. He did his very best to push you off the bed.  
  
…..  
  
But perhaps Brian had a point. Maybe you were insisting that the help call you ‘Mr. Taylor’ because you didn’t exactly feel like a 'Justin' in this house, and it had certainly never been your dream to be a snooty, rich faggot who bossed people around for sport. Right?  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”It’s not a lie if they make you lie.”_  
  
Unbeknownst to Justin, you developed a very necessary relationship with Roger, your new chef. Had Justin consulted you before hiring him, there would’ve been about a sixty percent chance that you would’ve broken down and explained to your spouse that you were on a meal plan sanctioned by Steve Jobs, but because he didn’t consult you, you got away with not consulting him in return—not that you were exactly proud of that. The first time Roger called you about the weekly menu because Justin was unavailable for some reason, you quietly explained to him about iWWINN® leaving out all of the top-secret information because, let’s face it, you hardly knew this guy. He became rather speechless when you tried to explain to him that there was no need for him to actually turn on the oven himself because once the menu, calorie count, and meal times were programmed in, the oven heated up automatically. “You can’t override that?” he asked, clearly freaked out about appliance independence. “Well, you could,” you reluctantly sighed, “But trust me, you don’t want to. It’s not worth it.” Now you had two men in your house afraid of most of the kitchen.  
  
“And the dishwasher’s just gonna start every night at eight thirty?” Roger asked incredulously.  
  
“Yes. It used to be every other night, but now that Justin is back, it runs every day unless we program an ‘exception.’”  
  
“Hmm,” Roger said, “I see. I guess…”  
  
You had to think of a way to save this situation because you didn’t want Roger to quit. Justin would probably find out why and there would be blond-twink-inflicted hell-to-pay for years, so you made Roger an offer, “Whatever salary you and Justin agreed to, I’ll give you fifty percent more in an upfront bonus provided that this information stays between us.”  
  
Roger was _such_ a decent guy it was almost nauseating, “Wow. Well, um, I don’t really think you need to do that, Brian.”  
  
“I _insist_.”  
  
“Uh, okay. Sure. So I guess I need to confer with you every week after Mr. Taylor and I plan the menus? I don’t see how this is going to work otherwise.”  
  
“Sounds perfect,” you said, “Mostly just for portion sizes for me. Things like that.”  
  
“I feel kind of creepy about this, though. Just for the record.”  
  
You admitted to him that it was mutual; you felt kind of creepy, too. You gave him one more directive before you hung up, “Roger?”  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“Absolutely, positively no waffles.”  
  
*********************  
_”Fags drive it.”_  
  
So life went on as usual after that. You were getting quite spoiled having your meal plan further automated with Roger at the helm and because he was in the kitchen, Justin happily _wasn’t._ Instead, he spent his days painting, becoming the planet’s largest purchaser of bubble wrap and Styrofoam, shipping, dealing with customers and galleries, and maybe even napping a little now that summer was here, and that was more than fine with you. Sitting in your office, you often got a weirdly warm feeling inside you when you thought about him lucratively painting himself to death in his fairy-prince studio. Justin would text you to see if you wanted to have lunch, so when he did that around eleven a.m. on a Wednesday in early June, you agreed and tried to ignore how excited your dick was getting waiting for him to arrive. When he got there, he looked a bit more dressed up than usual (no paint residue on his fingers either), and as you walked out of Kinnetik with him, you stopped and asked, “Where’s the ‘vette?”  
  
“I didn’t drive the ‘vette today,” he said, trying not to smile. You followed his gaze and there parked right next to your Mercedes was a brand new, fully loaded, almost black but sort of deep purple Jeep Grand Cherokee responding to the buttons Justin was pushing on his key chain. Your heart skipped more than one beat, “You _sold_ the ‘vette?”  
  
He laughed and tugged your arm, “God, no. I would never do that. We still have the ‘vette. Breathe.”  
  
You were embarrassed at how relieved you were, “Okay, then what’s this? You went shopping?” ( _Without me?_ )  
  
“Oh my god, you’re mad at me,” he teased you, “Come on, Brian. I wanted to buy something all by myself.” He threw his arms around you and whispered in your ear, _”It’s just that I kind of have this thing for Jeeps.”_ You hugged him back; your erection was liking this car a lot, and he noticed, “ _That’s_ the guy I married. Come on, get in!” His excitement was probably registering on the Richter scale. The car smelled so good, and the tan leather seats were uber-comfortable. “It does almost everything your car does except it doesn’t address me by name. I made sure of that.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him, well, not _everything._ Running your hand along the dash board surveying everything inside, you questioned him, “You financed or paid cash?”  
  
“I paid half in cash and financed the rest so I can build up my credit.” _God, he’s so adorable when he doesn’t grasp that we’re wealthier than any ‘credit score.’_  
  
“You got a good deal? They didn’t dick you around?”  
  
He laughed and slapped your leg, “Once I told him that I was married to the guy who drove through their showroom about ten years ago, they couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. They practically gave it to me…and they called me, ‘Mr. Taylor!’”  
  
You were so, so proud of him. “Let’s go to the loft and fuck. Celebrate a little.”  
  
“Hell, no,” he said, “We’re going for a joy ride. I gotta show my mom!”  
  
*********************  
_”Use high-test.”_  
  
In your quietest moments, you would probably admit that God (or somebody) always blesses beautiful people with beautiful things, and the fact that you had the accidental foresight to buy a mansion with a three car garage, turned out to be one of the best blessings you’d ever received. Had you known that buying a new car would bring out this much unbridled energy in Justin, you would’ve bought an entire dealership and renovated the top floor as your living quarters. That first night, he might as well have been on Ecstasy, and when he realized he needed to rearrange some stuff in the garage to actually get all three cars in there, he threw on an old pair of (a little too tight) Levi’s and started his own one-man moving company. “Justin, I’ll help you. Just hang on a minute.” You ran upstairs to change, his words snapping at your heels, “I can do it!”  
  
About twenty minutes later after relocating some leftover furniture to the basement, the two of you were pretty sweaty and convinced that you’d made it work. Justin pulled his new car in and was not at all amused when you jumped in the back and suggested he join you. Somehow, you talked him into sitting next to you back there, but when you made a move for his jeans, he slapped you away like a little girl, “No, no, no! I don’t want this car to smell like anything but ‘brand new car!’”  
  
“Then just blow me,” you tried.  
  
“No, you’re all sweaty. Get out of my car. Go take a shower.” He didn’t even join you in the fucking shower. He was too busy blasting the radio, reading his owner’s manual, and bouncing up and down on the ass you should’ve been in. Maybe now you understood his animosity toward the kitchen….  
  
When he finally came upstairs, he found you fresh and clean and sitting in bed reading. He’d spent at least an hour in the garage all by himself. He climbed on the bed immediately, crawled over, and straddled you, pushing your magazine out of the way. You rebuffed him, “You’re all gross. Go shower.”  
  
He wasn’t the least bit assuaged, “No.”  
  
You pushed your glasses back up on your nose (found them all by yourself) and gave him the four-one-one, “Excuse me. You’ve turned me down not once, but twice, today. I’m reading. Kindly remove yourself.”  
  
“Oh, you’re being bitchy. I kinda like that,” he mused.  
  
“I don’t know what to say you’re being,” you told him. “I’ve never met a man who didn’t get extraordinarily horny from new car fumes before. I’m half-inclined to take you to the doctor tomorrow and have your ass adjusted.”  
  
His expression changed to that demure, smoky one he employs; the one where his eyelashes suddenly weigh ten pounds and he can hardly lift them, “But you’re my doctor, Dr. Kinney. Why don’t _you_ adjust it?”  
  
“Because I no longer accept your insurance,” you said matter-of-factly.  
  
“I’ll pay…out of pocket is fine with me.”  
  
You took your glasses off and set them and the magazine on your night table, and then helped him out of his pockets, reminding him in a whisper when you were rightfully back inside him, _”Your bottom belongs to me, and I’ll fuck it whenever or wherever or want.”_  
  
“Oh yeah? Well, then you better teach me a lesson so I remember that.”  
  
“As you wish, Mr. Taylor. As you wish.”  
  
*********************  
**GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV**  
_”I'm half Italian and half drag queen. I'm allowed to get worked up.”_  
  
The day your douche-bag brother decided to have a heart-to-heartless conversation with you about an upcoming wrinkle in his schedule was the day you officially fucking lost it. It was a weekday in mid-June when a delivery of steaks you desperately needed went completely AWOL and the liquor delivery to Zeal and Babylon was four hours late. The circumstances meant that Zeek was pacing around your office feeling useless with nothing to do and decidedly un-empathetic about your frantic search for… _where’s the beef?_  
  
“Get out of my office so I can deal with this shit,” you warned him more than once.  
  
“Got no place to go,” he grumped back at you.  
  
You put your call on speakerphone because you were on interminable hold, “That’s not my fucking fault. If you hadn’t run your mouth about Brian’s problems in New York, you’d still be doing maintenance at Kinnetik during regular hours.”  
  
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”  
  
“You never think when you open your mouth,” you chastised him, “Telling everybody Prada would be making straightjackets soon and then giving him a fucking _waffle iron_ for his birthday. I mean, really, Zeek. That’s why you had to go deliver those light boxes to the sewer all by yourself. You should thank your lucky stars that we’re both still _alive_ , much less have jobs.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s what I need to talk to you about…kind of.”  
  
So, he was hanging around for a reason: to make your day even worse. Naturally. And you hadn’t seen him this squirrely since he met Jennifer Taylor. “Well, whatever it is, just spit it out.”  
  
“You’re not gonna like it.”  
  
“What else is new?”  
  
He sighed and finally stopped pacing, “Okay…you’re gonna have to get somebody else to unpack deliveries; I’m leaving the country for awhile.”  
  
You were on your feet after that announcement, seconds after giving up on your elevator music phone call, “Excuse me?”  
  
Zeek finished his bulletin slowly, the words plopping out of his mouth slow and heavy like concrete, “Me and Rube…. We’re going to Italy…for a couple weeks. He’s in the Global Domino Tournament. He placed…. He could win a lot of money. Like forty thousand bucks and some sponsorships and shit.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“As a heart attack.”  
  
You sat back down at your desk and let your head flop into your hands face first, “Zeek, you can’t do this to me. You _and_ Rube can’t leave town, much less the fucking _country_ at the same time. Brian will never approve that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, Rube has shitloads of vacation saved up, and Boss Man can fire me if he wants, I don’t give a fuck.”  
  
“Clearly.”  
  
A frustration was beginning to leak out of your brother at that point, a frustration you hadn’t seen in a long, long time. “Look, ‘Cakes, I can’t live my fucking life being a fucking slave to you and Kinney-“  
  
“So you’ll just be Ruben’s slave?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up when I’m talking. You’ve got everything you want now. Everything. So does Kinney. So does Dr. Dan and Eggo and fucking everybody else. You all have your precious monotonous relationships, and what do I have? Fucking nothing.”  
  
“Since when do you want a monogamous relationship?”  
  
“I don’t,” he said, deflating faster than he’d puffed up, sinking into a chair in your office.  
  
…..  
  
“Wait, is this about that girl? About Harper?”  
  
“I’ll probably never see her again, now that her brother’s gone. She doesn’t need me,” he paused, continuing a few seconds later, “I mean, I figured she might need security or something when Alan’s killers went on trial, and then they fucking pled out, fucking mother fuckers.”  
  
“Zeek,” you stressed, “There’s a difference between dating someone and being their bodyguard. Emotional and physical security aren’t the same thing.”  
  
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”  
  
“She _is_ married, you know. She’s made her choice. You have to respect that—“  
  
“I respect it every single night when I’m fucking some useless chicken in the backroom.”  
  
“Maybe,” you said as carefully as you could, “You should look for someone your own age. She’s way too young for you—“  
  
“You tell Kinney that, too?”  
  
“No,” you admitted.  
  
“He could fuck a metrosexual toddler, and you’d look the other way.”  
  
“So this is why you’re leaving the _country_? Because your heart is broken?”  
  
Zeek sighed in that way that let you know how tedious you’d become, “It’s our fucking homeland, ‘Cakes. I’m just going back to my roots for a couple weeks.”  
  
“Does Brian know? Has Rube asked him?”  
  
“Not yet. We kinda thought you might help us with that…”  
  
“And I’ll take ‘things that will never ever happen’ for a thousand.”  
  
“Never mind, I’ll just go to Kinnetik and ask him. He won’t punch me in front of his loyal subjects.”  
  
“Don’t be so sure, Zeek. You’ve been wrong before.”  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_”I don’t plan on ever looking back.”_  
  
_two days later…_  
  
During Harper’s first-ever visit to your West Virginia home, she sat cross-legged on the floor of your studio staring at the walls you’d begun to paint. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “I like it. The whole New York skyline thing is very cool.”  
  
“Good,” you said, “You get to help me finish it.”  
  
She smiled, “You miss the city, don’t you?”  
  
“I miss the environment,” you said. “I miss how I was always inspired, you know?”  
  
“Those are your rose-colored glasses talking, Justin. It wasn’t always inspirational; it’s a ‘grass-is-greener’ effect.” Maybe she was right; maybe that was true. It seemed like ten years had passed since you hung out in front of your easels at Daniel’s place and willed something to appear on them, something you could sell or at least feel a sense of accomplishment about. “And besides that,” she added, her voice dropping an octave to match the concern on her face, “It’s not like there’s anything left there to feel inspired by, you know?” Her shoulders were the next to fall, “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on coming here and dumping my shit on you. I want to have fun.”  
  
“We’ll have more fun than you can stand; don’t worry. We own a nightclub. Talk to me; tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
She sighed and stared at her knees, “I can’t go there anymore…to paint. I mean, I’ve tried. It’s just that, well, Daniel’s hardly ever there anymore—"  
  
“Because he’s here?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, so it’s just this quiet tomb of memories. You’re not there, and I don’t want to bring Amelia with me most days because I just end up sitting in our old studio crying.” You sat down next to her as a tear fled down her face. “And Sam’s in the same situation with that mural being outside his workspace. It’s inspiring and sad at the same time. Most days he just goes there and sits on that bench in front of it and thinks. Needless to say, we don’t get much done.”  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back to Daniel’s,” you suggested. “I mean…you know…it’s basically a crime scene.” You regretted your description the second it escaped from your lips because it broke something open inside Harper, something pregnant with grief. She leaned down and put her head in your lap; you stroked her hair while a hopeless aura settled around her. You never even heard Brian come home or walk up the stairs; he was just suddenly standing in the doorway, greeting you both before he could take stock of the situation, “Hey, kids. How’s it hanging?”  
  
*********************  
**HARPER COLLINS'S POV**  
_Bury it in your subconscious and forget about it?_  
  
_five hours later…_  
  
You sat alone at first on Brian and Justin’s front stoop, your just-painted toes curled around the aging bricks, a cigarette burning itself out in your fingers. It was so quiet at their house; it felt like the entire neighborhood had overdosed on Xanax or something. When the front door opened behind you, you expected Justin to come out and join you, but you got Brian instead.  
  
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting down beside you.  
  
You laughed, “It’s your house. Where’s Justin?”  
  
Brian seemed to retract a little, extending hospitality before anything else, “I think he’s in the bathroom. You want me to go get him?”  
  
“No, no. It’s fine. I just thought he’d want to smoke.”  
  
Brian laughed as he lit up, “He smokes less and less these days. That’s why I’m kind of glad you’re here and lighting up; we can dilute his disapproval a bit.” And then he changed the subject, “Are you okay…from earlier?” You couldn’t bear to tell him no, but he saw through that fast, so fast it made you nervous. You didn’t even answer him; he just kept talking, “This isn’t something you’re going to get over in a few weeks, you know? Not even a few years--,” and then he stopped and looked right in your eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he said and he disappeared inside. The whiskey he brought you made your eyes water; you thought you heard Justin’s voice as Brian shut the front door behind him and rejoined you. Your throat was burning when you told him, “You know, I forgot how obnoxious insects are at night in the country. Reminds me of Georgia as a kid.”  
  
“It’s a six-legged symphony every night during the summer,” he agreed. “When I first moved out here, it took me forever to get used to it and tune it out. Now, anytime I sleep at my loft back in the city, I can barely tolerate the constant barrage of police sirens.”  
  
“You were saying?” you asked him, “Before you went inside?”  
  
He took the empty shot glass from your hand and set it on the concrete behind him, “You don’t get over this, okay? You don’t. I know I’m not a shrink or anything, but I’m just telling you…it just…becomes a part of you. You have to help it get comfortable inside there and there.” He pointed to your heart and your head.  
  
“I don’t know how to do that,” you admitted, “And everyone that I would ask for help with that is going through the same thing. I feel trapped, like I have nowhere to go with it and it just gets heavier and heavier.”  
  
“You don’t talk to Daniel?” he asked, stretching his long legs out onto the sidewalk.  
  
“Can’t. He’s worse off than me. I mean, I think he is. I don’t really know. You think this thing he has with Gabe is real or avoidance?”  
  
Brian sort of smiled, stubbed out his cigarette and brought his hands together in front of him, “Real. I can tell.”  
  
“It’s wrong that that makes me sad.”  
  
“It’s not wrong; it’s just human. I mean, I don’t pretend to comprehend the fag hag psyche, but it’s normal to feel a little slighted.”  
  
“Jesus, you’re an asshole. I’m not a fag hag.” Brian gave you a funny look with a raised eyebrow so you gave him one back.  
  
“You wanna know something?” he asked you.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re the first person in several years who’s had the courage to call me an asshole and mean it.”  
  
“Really? I find it hard to believe that Justin doesn’t call you one now and again,” you said.  
  
“Ha, he just _likes_ my asshole.”  
  
You laughed, “I think he refers to it as an ‘endangered species.’”  
  
Brian jabbed you with his elbow, “So you know what that tells me? That you’re brave enough to call me that?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That, like it or not, you’re gonna be okay.”  
  
You smiled at him and then asked a question that had been bugging you since you saw Justin’s studio, “What the hell is up with that giant canvas Justin glopped paint all over? I tried to ask him about it, but he kept changing the subject.”  
  
Brian sighed, “That’s a long story and a couple thousand dollars down the drain.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”Be patient. Everything will be up and running in no time.”_  
  
_the following Wednesday morning…_  
  
Theodore seemed oddly nervous before the staff meeting that morning. “What’s up your ass?” you asked.  
  
“I think I’m just freaking out about Rube leaving us, even if it’s just for a couple weeks.”  
  
You nodded, “Agreed. It terrifies me, too.”  
  
“It’s just that…well…he’s a one-man guaranteed revenue stream. But I should quit worrying; it’ll be fine.”  
  
“I think my idea will work,” you conceded.  
  
“Do they know yet?”  
  
“Not exactly. I bought one-way tickets and told them to pack for a month.”  
  
“And they agreed?” Ted asked, “Just like that?”  
  
Your responding tone had a soberness about it, “Well…sometimes any distraction is better than living in your nightmares.”  
  
“And you still want Blake, too? Right?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Well, good, because he’s missing his yoga class to be here.”  
  
You laughed, “Yeah, well, you can help him with all of his favorite positions at home tonight.”  
  
Theodore was wide awake that morning and ready to play ball, “Don’t act like you don’t move heaven and earth to keep your wife happy, especially not to me, the man who monitors all your money.”  
  
“Yeah, about that… thanks for helping Justin finance that car without a word to me about it.”  
  
“He has his own money, Brian, and besides, like you would ever say no to him.”  
  
“I’m not positive, but I think when you get married, that word is surgically removed from your vocabulary.”  
  
Ted sighed, “And exiled like a Middle East dictator.”  
  
Reception buzzed in, interrupting your conversation, “Brian, Ted? Blake is …here. Oh, and so is…everybody else.”  
  
*********************  
_”Is that what they mean by stroke of genius?”_  
  
Amelia’s first visit to your neck of the woods had officially begun with her inability to even blink as she stood in the doorway of your office clutching a stuffed pink kitten that was summarily discarded when you bent down and said, “Hello, Amelia.” She titled her head back as if she needed permission from Harper to take even one step forward. “It’s okay, ‘Melia. Go ahead,” she said. Her little black shoes rattled on the floor as she ran to you, the floor making her slide into you like you were home plate at the World Series. “I was on a pairplane, Brime Kinney” she told you, “Like this!” She extended her arms side-to-side to demonstrate.  
  
“I know. Did you like it?”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t like the potty. It was ‘sgusting.”  
  
“Speaking of,” Harper said, “Where’s your bathroom?” Justin pointed it out for her and she whooshed Amelia away to take care of business while you greeted Sam and Blake and funneled everyone into the conference room. “Wow,” Justin said when he saw the table, “This is official. We have legal pads.” Harper’s exit from your bathroom signaled the beginning of the meeting with Amelia climbing onto Sam’s lap and immediately drawing on his pad. You began as Ted passed out the business plan to everyone, “Everyone, here is the plan.”  
  
“Brime Kinney, I want one for me.”  
  
“Oh, this is just for grownups,” Ted tried.  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, “Give her one, Theodore.” He shrugged his shoulders and sent one sliding down the table before taking his seat next to Blake. “Okay, guys—,” you began again only to be interrupted by the arrival of Gable, Rube, Emmett and Zeek.  
  
“Oh my god, are we late?” Emmett asked.  
  
“No, no, you’re not late, just sit down,” you said waving them in. You could tell Gabe was immediately off kilter because Justin was sitting in _his_ coveted seat next to you, but you watched as he instantly repaired himself by taking attendance and realizing that Debbie wasn’t present. You answered the question he was about to ask, “Nothing changes at the diner, Gabe.”  
  
He took a deep breath, “Oh. Oh…okay,” and sat up even straighter than usual, a stark contrast to Zeek’s attempt to hide behind his copy of the plan.  
  
You began again, “Okay, here’s what I’ve worked out—“ Ted cleared his throat. “Jesus, here’s what _Ted_ and I have worked out.”  
  
“Jesus is here?” Rube asked. “Am I the only one who doesn’t see him?”  
  
“He’s sitting at the head of the table,” Justin quipped.  
  
“For Christ’s sake, will you all please shut the fuck up so we can start?” you asked, and before you could retract the vile language, Amelia chimed is, “Yeah, ‘cause everybody is ‘upposed to shut the fuck up right now ‘cause I knowed that.” Zeek tried to muffle a laugh that came out in a snort and earned him a swift kick from Harper right in the shin, “Ow!”  
  
Your aggravation began to show, “I have other things to do today, boys and girls, so can we please get started?”  
  
“Please,” Sam said, “I have a short attention span sitting on my lap.”  
  
“Okay,” you began yet again, “This is the plan for the next month. As you all know, Ruben is competing in a world-wide Domino tournament in two weeks during which time both he and Zeek will be gone. We’re going to play a little game of musical chairs to get through those two weeks without losing money.”  
  
“That’s just wrong,” Rube complained, “I always miss all the reindeer games.”  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, something else you regretted as Amelia tried desperately to mimic the gesture throughout the rest of the meeting. “Okay, here we go. Emmett, you’re going over to Babylon for those two weeks to work with Justin and Blake. It will take three of you to equal one of Superman over here.” You pointed to Rube who puffed out his pathetic excuse for a chest. The rest of the group finally looked as serious as Gabe had from the moment he walked in. “Ruben handles just about everything at Babylon and Mecca—“  
  
“Mecca?” Sam interjected.  
  
“The VIP room upstairs. We converted it into an ‘A-gay’ club. You have to be at least thirty to get in.”  
  
“Gee, count me out then,” Justin smirked.  
  
You almost flipped him off but caught Amelia’s big rolling eyes staring right at you and decided against it. “Okay, so Ruben handles everything for me besides physical security, and it’s because of him that we consistently turn an impressive profit. We’re going to pull Damien, our lead bartender at Zeal, and he will cover weekend nights at Babylon because there’s a ton of money to be lost in liquor if it’s not done right. Gabe will order the liquor as usual. Zeek has two other guys who bounce with him who will be stepping up while he’s not here, including working the door. Justin, you’re in charge of overall management, monitoring the closed-circuit security and the finances. Not an un-budgeted penny is spent without your permission. Blake, you’re in charge of monitoring the bathrooms and back room and anywhere else you suspect excessive drug use going on. I don’t mind if guys are enjoying a bump here and there, but I will not have young guys tweaking out in my club. We contract with a private taxi and a private ambulance service that will quietly usher these junkies away if they go too far, but it’s your job to make sure they leave before they do. Emmett, you’re in charge of everything social: hosting contests, working with the DJ, keeping the party atmosphere in high gear—“  
  
“And the glitter. I’m in charge of the glitter, right?”  
  
“Of course, you are, Pixie Pants,” Zeek remarked under his breath.  
  
“Yes,” you assured him, “Now, Harper, either you or Sam, whomever you decide, will be taking Emmett’s place at Zeal, helping Gabe with hosting, etc.  All of you will be training with Ruben and Gabe over the next two weeks to get ready to take over while he’s gone.”  
  
“Rube dances on the bar sometimes,” Justin said, “Do I get to do that again?”  
  
“No, Sunshine. You don’t.”  
  
Justin blushed, “Don’t call me that in front of other people. Jeesh.”  
  
“Then don’t ask me idiotic questions.”  
  
“Brian,” Harper spoke up, “I think it’s going to be me working at Zeal; I think Sam wants to parent.”  
  
“Fine with me. Sam, would you like to see what’s behind door number two if you decide to stay with Amelia?”  
  
“Uh…sure. I think.”  
  
Ruben began mumbling like the _Price is Right_ announcer as you pulled out a different plan and spun it across the table to him, revving up your own game show host voice, “Well, Samuel, it’s your lucky day. During your one month stay at our humble estate, a swim teacher will arrive three days a week to teach Amelia how to swim in our pool. I’ve also enrolled her in a summer dance class two days a week – some kind of fusion of ballet, tap, and if you can believe it, hip hop.”  
  
“Yeah, I already knowed that,” Amelia said.  
  
“Naturally,” you said, “You’ll find the appropriate attire for each of these activities in her room at our house, and Justin has restocked his studio with child-appropriate art supplies including non-toxic finger paint that apparently smells like fruit-of-the-loom.”  
  
“It’ll give you a headache after awhile,” Justin admitted.  
  
“Wow,” Sam said. Harper just stared at you, blinking purposefully.  
  
“Don’t forget the horses, Brian,” Justin nudged you.  
  
“Oh, yes, and there’s a farm about ten minutes from our house that gives horse-riding lessons to little ones, so your Saturday mornings will be spent on a ranch.”  
  
Harper spoke up, “Brian, this is crazy. You didn’t have to do all this.”  
  
“You’re helping me; I’m helping you.”  
  
“You’re _paying_ us and letting us stay in your house for free. This is too much,” Harper countered.  
  
“ _Drawbridge_ ,” Sam whispered, poking her with his elbow, “ _This_ is the _drawbridge._ ”  
  
“You want a drawbridge?” you asked, confused.  
  
“I draw-ded a bridge one time, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“No,” Harper tried again, “This is too much. Not that we don’t appreciate it, but it’s not necessary.”  
  
“Well, too late, it’s done. I don’t think you fully appreciate how much it means to me to have people that I know and trust running my businesses—“ Gabe nodded as if you were speaking solely about him. “I don’t sleep at night unless everything is running smoothly.”  
  
“And lately,” Justin added, “We hardly sleep at all.”  
  
You gave Justin a look that probably felt like an ice pick in his ass. “If I were you,” you told him, “I’d start taking this a little more seriously. The house, the pool, the studio, that stuff isn’t free. This is how we afford it.”  
  
“Is this how we afford the refrigerator?”  
  
“You’re pushing it,” you warned him, and he grinned like a maniacal nymph. "Harper, Sam…our car service will take you to our house. Make yourself at home this afternoon. Everyone else, get out of here.” Justin got up and you grabbed his forearm, holding him back, “You’re staying with me, Sunshine. Your training begins now.”  
  
*********************  
_”It’ll be a pleasure to work under you..sir.”_  
  
_fifteen minutes later at Babylon…_  
  
“I need more than splooge for lunch, Brian,” Justin complained as you led him up to your office off the catwalk.  
  
“It’s being delivered, darling. I’ve taken care of that.”  
  
“What are we doing here?”  
  
You unlocked your office and let him enter first, “I don’t think you realize what goes into keeping this place profitable. I’m going to start teaching you.” And so over a lunch of Thai food, you opened up Babylon’s books and began to show him where the margins are at the door, the bar, and the VIP room. “We charge that much for liquor in Mecca?” he asked, “And they pay it?”  
  
“Yes. They pay it because it comes with a side of luxury and privacy. These are older men, many are couples, and they want to drink, dance, and fuck amongst their own kind.”  
  
“So basically, they don’t want to be seen getting their dick sucked next to some twink who makes seven bucks an hour,” Justin summed up.  
  
“Right. They want to get their dick sucked next to a CEO. Someone they respect and might even do business with in the future.”  
  
“So, it’s networking with your cock out.”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“How quaint. The condom rule still applies?”  
  
“Always. Nobody does it raw here.”  
  
“Except us,” Justin said with a wicked smile.  
  
“That’s not common knowledge and let’s keep it that way, okay?” He reluctantly agreed. “Okay, let’s talk about expectations. You need to be here until close on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. On other nights, you can leave when you feel like everything’s under control.”  
  
“But you never stay that late.”  
  
“I have Rube here; I don’t have to. You don’t have him or Zeek, so you need to cover it.”  
  
“Can I ask a dumb question?”  
  
“I charge twenty dollars for each one.”  
  
“Okay, put it on my tab. Why don’t _you_ just work with me? Wouldn’t we make more money that way?”  
  
“Conceivably, yes, but only here. If I spend my nights here, I’m a shit-for-brains at Kinnetik the next day, and trust me, we make most of our money there, and, besides, we’d just end up making out all night.”  
  
“Remember the days when you could work all day, fuck me all night and exist on an hour of sleep?” he asked.  
  
“Yes, but I’m a grown up now, and grownups have entire empires to run, so I think this is the best plan.” He flipped to a clean page on his pad and kept writing as you continued, “Okay, so now let’s talk about beer. There are huge profit margins to be had in beer and liquor. The bartenders know exactly how much to pour and how to get the most out of a keg, etc.. They’ve been meticulously trained. You’ll sell more beer than liquor before ten p.m., and then the numbers will usually flip or run neck in neck. Gabe knows how much to order by looking at the take from the previous week. But the real way we make money on beer and liquor is by the atmosphere. Happy people drink more and spend more. That’s where you come in. You need to keep a constant eye on everyone – security, the DJ, the bartenders, the crowd. Be sure there aren’t any conflicts brewing. Nothing stops sales like an argument. Around midnight, there’s enough testosterone, whiskey, and horny guys in here to make a great riot.” You turned on your wide screen TV and loaded the security tapes from the previous Saturday. They began to play in quadrant form. “Okay, these feeds are from the door, the bar, the dance floor, and the backroom. We’re going to watch these together, and I’m going to point out the things you need to watch out for and put a stop to, the first of which is drugs, specifically meth and M-cat—.”  
  
“I don’t even know what that is.”  
  
“Well, count yourself lucky. That’s precisely why we have Blake on board for these two weeks. He knows exactly what it is and how to spot it. It’s a new drug similar to meth and commonly referred to as ‘bath salts’ because that’s what it looks like, only they aren’t the kind Sarah gave you in that gift basket. It’s a street chemist designer drug that causes agitation and hallucinations and sometimes even suicide from the first use.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“It also goes by ‘meow’ and ‘explosion.’ If you ever see them strip searching some guy, that’s probably why. I’m not having this shit in my club. If any of you think you see it or that someone’s on it, you let security handle it. This stuff makes kids psychotic. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He wrote down the names you gave him and the side effects, listening carefully as you began to educate him about the rest of the highs and lows of nightclub management, how the staff who run the place ultimately determine the profit margin by their ability to run a tight but very friendly ship. “Rube is a master at this,” you explained. “He can calculate profit margins in his head, watch all the security feeds at the bar while he’s serving and entertaining the masses. People come to Babylon just to see him do his goofy tricks or to help him build some ridiculous Tinker Toy structure on the bar.”  
  
“Okay, but I’m not Rube. I can’t do tricks. I mean, I can barely work a yo-yo.”  
  
“You snagged me, didn’t you? That was quite a trick.”  
  
“I can do this trick with my ass,” Justin mused. “If I just keep my back to the bar, I bet I can charm money out of every top’s wallet at once.”  
  
“You emptied mine more times than I care to count, so I’ll take that bet.”  
  
He grinned and kissed you, “I’ve had you under my spell for a long, long time. So Rube’s formula is basically to let boys be boys.”  
  
“Exactly. Now let’s talk about what we do when we get actual boys in here,” you said, pointing out underage kids at the bar and in the backroom.  
  
“Wait,” Justin said, “How did these kids even get in in the first place?”  
  
You laughed, “How did you get in?”  
  
“But that’s the doorman’s job. Why didn’t he stop them?”  
  
“It gets insane here on Friday and Saturday nights; they don’t catch everybody. You have to work in tandem with security.”  
  
“Oh my god, that kid has a fake mustache!” Justin said pointing to the screen.  
  
“Some of them even put cucumbers in their pants.”  
  
“That is seriously retarded.”  
  
“They’re just kids. They just want to get laid like everybody else,” you said, winking at him and jabbing him with your elbow. “You’ll spend the rest of the afternoon with Rube getting the operational rundown. Wednesday is our reset day. I’ll see you tonight when you get home.” You looked down at his legal pad; he’d written ‘CUCUMBER’ and underlined it twice.  
  
  
  
_Each section's opening quote is dialogue from Queer As Folk. Artwork done by the amazingly talented and patient[](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/profile)[ **silent_seas**](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/). She completed this piece for me ages ago, able to translate a feeling in my head to an actual work of art. It took me quite awhile to find its place in the story, but that has only increased by adoration for the artist and her work._


	50. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 47-Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 2/2/13] This chapter was posted in 2 parts on LJ. It is posted in full here.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 47—ILLUMINATION**  
  
**SAM COLLINS’ POV**  
_”Mourn the losses because they’re many, but celebrate the victories because they’re few.”_  
  
Because you’d never actually _planned_ on being a father--you’d been winging it from the moment Harper told you she was pregnant, and things flew by so fast back then—the pregnancy, the wedding, the birth, a tiny baby—all you ever focused on was providing for your little brood. Since Alan’s murder and the loss of your unborn child, things had slowed down in an almost cruel way; days that used to fly by merely crept along, moving at the pace of a crippled slug. Your camera was being neglected as well. You couldn’t bear to photograph the pain you were living in.  
  
Taking up temporary residence in West Virginia did more good for your tiny family than you could’ve ever imagined. At first, you worried that it would just be another form of avoidance, another way of ignoring the tragic side effects of Alan’s murder, but after only a few days, you changed your mind. How, you wondered, could a family composed of two artists and a pint-size one in training not foresee the benefit of a change of scenery? And you had to admit that the OCD-side of yourself was a little too curious about the inner-workings of other people’s lives, especially the filthy rich ones. And, you wondered, why did they call it that—‘filthy rich’—anyway? Dust was clearly afraid to land anywhere in Brian’s house.  
  
Harper’s days during those two weeks were always filled with restaurant work. Initially, you could see that much of the work she was doing was probably just the gift of busy work, but soon she was working with Gabe on redesigning the menu and perhaps even painting a mural in Zeal itself. She came home exhausted, her arms bursting with legal pads and scraps of sketches she’d doodled on just about everything. She’d even put on a couple pounds which made you very relieved as eating wasn’t something she’d done much of since the tragedies. Each morning, you and Amelia hugged Harper and Justin good-bye as they jumped in his Jeep and made the trip into Pittsburgh.  
  
The first day that it was just you and Amelia, you felt a little lost in Brian’s huge house, but it wasn’t long before the staff showed up and began going about their daily tasks. When Amelia realized that there was essentially a short-order cook in the kitchen, she wasted no time in demanding a breakfast composed of whatever she’d seen on television the night before. And before she could finish chewing her last bite, there was an athletic young woman knocking on the back door ready to start her swimming lesson. Amelia forgot all about the breakfast she’d demanded and took off upstairs to her room to put on her ‘babing’ suit – usually backwards. You sat on the edge of the pool (ready to jump in if she needed you) and watched her splash her way to an accidental sunburn – floaties, goggles, and all. (Harper still hasn’t forgiven you for the raccoon she came home to later that first night, scolding you and then leaving immediately to buy water-proof sunscreen at the twenty-four hour pharmacy.) As far as you were concerned, a little sunburn was an upgrade from the sadness Amelia had been immersed in, and Harper’s wrath was a sign of her long-missed vitality returning.  
  
The second day, a black Lincoln town car pulled into the driveway to take you and your daughter to her new dance class. Amelia had worn her new pink tutu every moment she wasn’t in the pool, and she was beyond ecstatic to be chauffeured to an actual dance studio. Everything was perfect until she realized that it wasn’t a private lesson, that there were, in fact, other children in very similar tutus who were just as excited as she was. Your darling daughter stared at them and then at you like they were aliens on an undiscovered planet, like you’d purposely been keeping a secret from her—that children weren’t just faded, huddled masses in a church. Amelia was finally convinced that she wasn’t the only representative of her species on earth. And then there was the issue of dancing itself…. You had to promise Amelia that you’d take dance class from _her_ when you got home as it was the only way to keep her from ‘teaching’ the class. At three years old, your daughter was finally learning the novel concept of ‘participant.’ Slowly, your camera began to call to you again and you used Amelia’s newfound hobbies as a tunnel back to the light.  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”So, are you coming or going?”_  
  
In late June 2011, you were nearly six months into your marriage with Justin and rather amazed that you’d both survived intact. Conceivably, there were multiple reasons for that: your sexual attraction could sustain the both of you sans food and water for at least a week, you’d matured a little despite your best efforts, and, quite frankly, your lives had been on fast forward since he returned such that you scarcely had time to reconsider your decision had you ever suffered the inclination. But as that summer blazed on, you came to the conclusion that marriage is one of those thousand piece jigsaw puzzles of Niagara Falls. First you have to accept the fact that it’s a project and then carve out space for it in your psyche. Next, you know that everything you need to complete the puzzle comes in the box but it’ll take you forever to put it together. So the question becomes, how best to tackle the task? Should you start on the corner pieces and work towards the middle or start in the middle and work out or split the pieces into two different piles and work in tandem with Justin side by side? Turns out, it’s a little bit of all three.  
  
Your first staff meeting with Justin at the helm of Babylon and Harper helping at Zeal was on a Wednesday morning as always. You and Justin had evil, conniving plans to pull off an elaborate practical joke on Gabe. Gabe, who was vulnerable anytime Zeek wasn’t around to harass and then protect him, was about to witness the most brutal staff meeting of his life – one where you pretended to berate Justin about his ‘measly profit margins’ and ‘not meeting your expectations’ – and you weren’t going to stop until Gabe got up the nerve to stick up for Justin and put you in your place. But just minutes before the meeting was supposed to start, some cosmic force decided you were working on the wrong part of your jigsaw puzzle and dumped all of your metaphorical progress all over the fucking floor. All it took was one phone call and instead of playing a joke on Gabe, you were leaving the meeting in his hands with Justin on your heels as you stormed out the door of Kinnetik.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_”Sunshine, how did I ever get along without you?”  
“You didn’t.”_  
  
Working with Brian that summer was exhilarating. You felt empowered as you oversaw Babylon, the establishment that had, like it or not, witnessed all the good and bad in your years with Brian. That summer as you counted cash and cases of liquor, you began to have more respect for the place where you’d been king for a day and once begged just to dance on the bar. The opportunity to be front and center at a legendary Kinney staff meeting actually excited you, too. You knew what to report and your numbers were pretty good, considering your time on the job. And Brian’s idea to razz Gabe a little, well, it sounded like fun. (A week working with Gabe and Brian was right, he must somehow secretly starch his toilet paper.) So when the plan fell through and Brian suddenly wanted nothing to do with the meeting or the joke or hell, even work, you were a little freaked out. You could barely keep up with him as he shut and locked his office and headed for the car.  
  
_"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Wednesday, June 29, 2011. The time is ten sixteen a.m. The current temperature is—“_  
  
Silence.  
  
Five seconds in the car with Brian and he’d done the unthinkable, pulled the plug on his automotive secretary. “Where are we going?” you asked since obviously, the car wasn’t going to tell you. “The loft,” he replied, his hands at ten and two and his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Brian, you’re freaking me out. Are you okay?” He shook his head _no._ “You’re scaring me. Is it the cancer or something? Was that your doctor on the phone?” Your stomach felt like you’d just eaten a bowling ball. He turned and looked at you, an almost-apologetic expression on his face as his answered you, very quietly, “No. No, I’m not sick.”  
  
“Jesus. Thank god. Don’t do that to me.”  
  
…  
  
“I don’t know; I think…maybe…we should go to New York and make it official,” he offered next, his eyes still fixed on traffic lights.  
  
_What the…?_  
  
…  
  
You know Brian well enough after all these years to know that his answer to a small problem is often a boulder-like solution meant to make a statement rather than just addressing the problem at hand. And even though you didn’t know what the problem was, you knew better than to charge at him with demands of full disclosure. So you took a deep breath and then another and just said, “Okay with me, but we’re going to the loft first, correct?”  
  
“Yeah,” he sighed.  
  
He didn’t want to take the elevator, so the two of you climbed the stairs to your original homestead, and you waited while he unlocked the door.  
  
“Wanna watch a movie?” he asked you on his way to plop down on the sofa, wasting no time in unraveling his tie.  
  
His behavior was odd, but you played along. “Sure. Want me to get you a drink?”  
  
“Something strong would be nice.”  
  
You brought him a double shot of Johnny Walker Blue, and he downed it like water. Brian found an old western on AMC and let the remote control rest for awhile. You leaned against him, and he moved, putting his arm around your shoulders. For the next half hour, you paid half of your attention to the movie and the other to Brian’s phone which rang, hummed, and chirped constantly. You pressed ‘ignore’ about twelve times before deciding to scroll back through his recent calls and messages. About half an hour before the morning meeting, there was a twelve minute phone call with a number you didn’t recognize. You turned off Brian’s phone and set it on the table and then kicked off your shoes and lay your head down in his lap. You were still adjusting to working ridiculously late at Babylon and could nap just about any time and anywhere. He didn’t push you away. You watched underneath the coffee table as he kicked his shoes off one by one. They landed on top of each other. Brian slid his hand inside the back of your jeans and laughed a little, “You know, this morning when I left for work, you had a piece of that giant purple club glitter lodged in your crack.”  
  
You smiled, “I did? It gets on everything.”  
  
“I took it with me. It’s in my pocket.”  
  
“You sniffed it, didn’t you?” you asked, turning to look up at him as he lied to you, “No. No, I would never do that.” You jabbed him with your elbow and he laughed. The credits began to roll on the movie, so you rolled onto your back and asked him, “So that’s why we need to make it official? Because I came home with glitter on my ass?” He sort of ignored you, reaching for the remote and you stopped him, gently but with purpose, and said, “Because here’s the thing: we can go today if you want, right now, and I’ll talk to Emmett about cutting back on the glitter bombs, and, I mean, maybe we should go back to New York because when we were there, we kind of made a deal about being more open with each other—“  
  
And that did it. That freed the genie in his bottle.  
  
He urged you to sit up, so you did, crossing your legs and facing him, expectantly, ready to hear about how hard it is to be forty or how some client _really_ fucked him over or maybe his mother called or--  
  
“It’s Gus.”  
  
*********************  
_”What is it with kids today?”_  
  
The bowling ball you felt in your stomach, somehow you knew it had been transferred to Brian and now it was weighing him down. “Tell me,” you said, your hand on his shoulder. For the past few years, Gus spent weeks of every summer with Brian. Over the past three months, there had been endless negotiations between father and son regarding Gus’s summer plans. They were cancelled more often than network shows in autumn, and the entire process was beginning to feel as impossible as resolving the Palestinian conflict.  
  
“He’s not coming,” Brian said. “He won’t come.”  
  
“Why?” And then you thought for a second and added, “Because of me?”  
  
Brian laughed a little and shrugged his shoulders, “I guess, in a way, but not for the reason you think. I thought he was having a hard time because he felt like he wouldn’t get enough one-on-one time with me or because Rube isn’t here to entertain him. Turns out, I was wrong.”  
  
“Why then? I don’t understand.”  
  
Brian stared straight ahead again at the empty television screen, “Because we’re, or actually, well, I mean, after all these years of telling me he’s not sure if he’s gay or not—“  
  
“He’s figured out what it means?” you asked.  
  
“I think his exact words were, ‘So, you and Justin do it in the butt?’”  
  
“Oh god.”  
  
“So he doesn’t want to come visit this year.”  
  
The look on Brian’s face-- it made you reach for his heart for fear that it might be ready to fall out. You offered your initial thoughts, “Brian…look …he’s eleven. Every eleven-year-old thinks anal sex is horrific. He’s supposed to. I’m sure he thinks all sex is disgusting right now.”  
  
“Apparently not his mothers’.”  
  
“Well, that’s different. He doesn’t have a vagina. He can’t relate; he doesn’t feel a connection to that.”  
  
“I was horrible to him on the phone,” Brian admitted. “I told him he was being a little shit.” And then he sighed and hung his head. “This is what happens when you let your son be raised by lesbians.”  
  
“Brian,” you semi-scolded him.  
  
“Well, it wasn’t just being a fag or what we do. He’s caught on to our age difference.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Well, he idolizes seventeen year olds whereas I just—“  
  
“Fucked them?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, defeated…completely, “I mean, I thought our first real sex talk would be about random wood and what to do, and it is okay to touch yourself and what is that milky white stuff in my sheets. Not this.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“He knows what a blow job is. He tells me this like it’s a threat, ‘I _know_ what a blow job is _Dad_.’ I mean, Christ, what am I going to say? ‘I gave my first one when I was fourteen to a teacher. Let me explain the finer points of sucking dick, son.’”  
  
“Oh boy.”  
  
At first, you had a hard time understanding why this latest conversation with Gus had sent Brian into hiding at the loft, but then you had to adjust your thinking; you had to remember that Brian’s track record with boys Gus’ age wasn’t so hot. He never mentioned his sister or his nephews; they’d even felt dead to you for years. So you suggested that maybe the two of you should go have lunch somewhere new and different, someplace he doesn’t own, and then come back and try to sort this mess out. He reluctantly agreed. “I’ll drive,” you said, “Come on.”  
  
*********************  
_”That will teach you to fuck with faggots.”_  
  
Your intention to talk things out at lunch and make a plan to address the situation were sort of thwarted when Brian decided to get a little trashed. Your suggestions of ways to approach Gus got you nowhere, so finally you just ate your flatbread sandwich and listened as Brian attempted to school you on the finer points of father/son relationships while stabbing the air with his silverware and giving your waitress the evil eye for not keeping his drink refreshed.  
  
“Okay, because here’s the thing. I would have _never_ said the things to my dad that he just said to me—“  
  
“Brian,” you tried, “You hated your dad for one, and two, he beat the crap out of you. Of course you wouldn’t.”  
  
“That’s beside the point. Gus has no right to judge me.”  
  
“Brian—“  
  
“Telling me that---. I mean, like I don’t roll out the fucking red carpet for him every summer. I give him everything, all his video games, anything he wants. Fuck, I gave him his fucking freedom so he wouldn’t even have to _live_ in this god-forsaken bigoted country and this is what I get for it?”  
  
“You need to calm down.” You motioned to the waitress to cut him off. “You’re upset and rightly so, but he’s a child, Brian. _Your_ child. _Your_ flesh and blood--“  
  
“Bullshit. There’s none of me in him.”  
  
“Oh really? He’s bull-headed, opinionated and obsessed with sex. Gee, I have no idea where he got that from.”  
  
“Do _not_ be a twat right now, okay?”  
  
“I’m going to order dessert, and if you don’t rein it in, I’m ordering you a straight jacket,” you told him from behind your menu.  
  
“Make sure it’s a brand name,” he mumbled. You kicked him under the table.  
  
*********************  
_”It’s only temporary.”  
“Until he grows up?”  
“Until I figure out what to do with him.”_  
  
You drove the two of you back to the loft, relishing how wonderfully Brian’s car drives when that bitch isn’t narrating every fucking thing. Brian’s bitchiness was reaching new heights in her place, however. He talked shit about the situation under his breath the entire ride back. “C’mere, Brian,” you said when the two of you were back in the loft. You took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom and ordered him to lie down. He fell backwards and folded his hands on his stomach and stared at you like, _Are you happy now?_ “We’re going to fix this. Just take a fucking chill pill,” you ordered.  
  
“How?”  
  
“Well, first off, you’re going to call Gus right now and apologize for calling him a ‘little shit’ and whatever else you said.”  
  
“I am not.”  
  
“Oh yes you are or in about five minutes this new symphony I composed for your skin flute will be completely forgotten.”  
  
He glared at you and yanked his cell phone out of his pants. It’d been off for almost two hours, so a cacophony of beeps and buzzing filled your bedroom. “Jesus Christ, I have eighty emails.”  
  
“Ignore them. Call him.”  
  
He found the number and called and gave you a look when it went to voice mail, “He’s not even picking up now.”  
  
“Leave a message.”  
  
He cleared his throat right before the beep and then began speaking like one of those old telegraph machines, “ _Gus, this is your father. I…um…just want to apologize for some of the things I said…before. I was…upset. I don’t think you’re a little shit._ ”  
  
“Tell him you love him,” you prodded in a whisper.  
  
He breathed in deep through his nose like he always does when he’s pissed, “ _I mean…you’re my son and I love you…you know…even if we’re not…seeing eye to eye right now. Okay, so… just wanted to tell you that…. And, um…may the force be with you.”_ He hung up and threw the phone in the sheets. “Okay, now fucking blow me,” he ordered, undoing his pants like they were on fire.  
  
*********************  
_”I don’t want him to forget me.”_  
  
Because Brian is always most compliant after a blow job, it wasn’t difficult to get him to play hooky with you for the rest of the day. You drove his car and stopped by Zeal to give Harper the keys to your Jeep and to reassure her that everything was okay. She cornered you in Gabe’s office and confided in you, “Gabe is _freaking_ out about Brian just leaving like that. He’s gonna give himself an aneurysm. What do I tell him?” “Tell him he had something personal to take care of. It’s a family matter. No need to freak,” you advised. Harper nodded. “Good thing you guys didn’t play that joke on him first; he’d be dead by now.”  
  
The ride back to West Virginia was peaceful but different. It was the first time you’d seen some of the older, poorer neighborhoods in the middle of a hot summer day. You drove cautiously as you crossed the state line because every street was filled with children either skate boarding in the street or jumping through sprinklers on lawns no bigger than a postage stamp. At a stop sign, you watched as boys about Gus’ age terrorized girls with the threat of cold water spewing from a garden hose. Brian just stared vacantly out the window; you were just driving his body home.  
  
Once home, he trudged up the stairs to your bedroom like each of his feet weighed fifty pounds. Sam was upstairs trying to convince Amelia to take a nap when she heard Brian on the stairs and ran to see who it was. You were a few steps behind Brian as she caught of a glimpse of him, clapping her hands together in glee, preening up on her toes, “Hi, Brime Kinney.”  
  
“Hello, Amelia,” he said.  
  
“What’s going on?” Sam asked following his daughter out of her room.  
  
“Cruddy day,” you said, discreetly pointing to Brian’s back.  
  
“I don’t wanna a take nap, Daddy,” Amelia said pushing Sam’s hand off her shoulder like he was a nothing but a nuisance. Brian just kept walking past your bedroom and into Gus’ room where he sat down on the bed. Amelia decided to follow him and before you could stop her, you could hear Brian, “Why don’t you go take a nap, and when you get up, we’ll go swimming in the pool, okay?”  
  
“I wanna go fwimming now.”  
  
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “I have to take a nap first, so you might as well take one, too.” You watched from the doorway as he kicked off his shoes and laid back on Gus’s bed, staring at the ceiling. Amelia seemed to consider her options carefully including whether or not to join Brian in an all-boys room and decided against it. “C’mon Daddy. Read me anober story,” she ordered her father. Sam guided her back into her pink palace and gave you a concerned but grateful look as he closed the door behind them. You stood in the doorway of Gus’ room and asked Brian, “Do you want to be alone for awhile?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll be in my studio if you need me. Want this door opened or closed?”  
  
“Closed. Please.”  
  
You pulled it shut and went to hang out in your studio, sorting through supplies trying to make a list of what you needed to order. Concentrating wasn’t coming easy and eventually you abandoned the task, deciding instead to change into your bathing suit and swim the uneasiness away. You were walking toward the pool when your phone rang. You dug it out of your pocket, half-expecting it to be Brian, but you were wrong. It was Lindsay.  
  
“Hey. What’s up?”  
  
“ _I’m trying to reach Brian and I can’t. He told you…about Gus?”_  
  
“Yes. He called to apologize. Did Gus—“  
  
“ _Yes, he got it. Mel and I just finished having a long talk with him. Where’s Brian?_ ”  
  
“Well, he got kind of drunk at lunch, and he was napping in Gus’ room awhile ago,” you informed her as you wandered back inside. “I’ll find him and tell him to call you.”  
  
“ _I could tell he wasn’t totally sober in that message,”_ Lindsay laughed.  
  
“He’ll call you in a bit. Let me find him.”  
  
She thanked you and hung up and you began your hunt for Brian, starting where you’d last seen him. Gus’ door was open, the bed was empty save Brian’s cell phone. You grabbed it and not wanting to wake Amelia, you padded quietly into your bedroom, bathroom, studio, guest room, and his office with no luck. You were halfway down the stairs when you heard a weird clanging sound. Your search took you down to the basement where Brian—shirtless but still in his work pants and shoes--was lifting weights.  
  
“Brian, what are you doing?” you asked him.  
  
“I think they call this exercising, Sunshine.”  
  
_No,_ you thought, _They call this pretty fucking stupid._ “I thought you were going to relax, maybe sleep it off for awhile?”  
  
“Tried and failed.”  
  
“Okay, well Lindsay’s been calling your cell phone. She wants you to call her.”  
  
“Not now.”  
  
Brian lay back on the weight bench, preparing to lift a ridiculous amount, so you went over, pretending to spot him, only you held the bar down instead. “Fuck you,” he spat out as he sat up.  
  
“I think we should talk about this. Don’t you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why? What’s the worst that can happen if we talk about it?”  
  
“Well, for starters, you’ll lie to my face.”  
  
“Fuck you, Brian. I will not.”  
  
Brian made one of his trademark sarcastically amused faces and countered with, “Okay, Sunshine. Let’s talk. You start.”  
  
“Well, I don’t think I should be the one to start, but... I think you’re overreacting a bit. Every parent has flare ups with their kid.”  
  
“Is that so? You speaking from experience?”  
  
He was really starting to piss you off but you couldn’t figure out what exactly was up his ass, so you just kept trying. “Yes, I guess I am. And I think that’s kind of a fucked up thing for you to say to me.”  
  
Brian used his three hundred dollar dress shirt as a towel, wiping his face and then (unbelievably) his arm pits, “Well, I think it’s fucked up for you to stand there and act like these kind of father-son spats always resolve themselves. In fact, I think you’re being grossly hypocritical.”  
  
You crossed your arms in defiance, “Brian, whatever you’re trying to say to me, just fucking say it because you’re pissing me off now. Seriously.”  
  
He didn’t hold back, “Okay, I don’t think _you_ should lecture _me_ about father-son relationships. Your father’s been calling you almost every day for four weeks, and you won’t return any of his calls. Sometimes these ‘flare ups’ are more than that, Justin. Sometimes they’re the beginning of the end.”  
  
How Brian can be right about something and yet leave you beyond infuriated has always befuddled you. You feared that nails would fly out from between your teeth when you spoke, “You need to go call Lindsay if you’re sober enough to use a phone.” You threw his cell phone at him and walked out the basement door, once again heading for the solace of your pool.  
  
*********************  
_”Nice going Ma and Pa.”_  
  
The sun was beating down on your backyard when Brian, Amelia, and Sam finally joined you at the pool about forty minutes later. Brian jumped in the water and walked over to where you were (hanging out in the corner enjoying a nice agua-ass-pounding from the water jets.) “I’m going to teach Amelia how to jump in the pool,” he said to you, and you gave him a cursory glance and replied, “Well, good for you.” He splashed you a little and walked away. Amelia was hollering to him, “Brime Kinney, you borgot my some scream!”  
  
“Come here, Amelia. I have it,” Sam said, waving her over to a chair.  
  
“I want Brime Kinney to put some scream on me,” she insisted.  
  
“No,” Brian said, “That’s your daddy’s job. Hurry up so we can practice.” She waddled over to her father in her pink fairy flip flops staring at Brian while Sam rubbed lotion all over her. Brian took the opportunity to wander over in your direction again, playing footsie with you under the water, “Are you wearing ‘some scream?’”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“We just had a horrendous family meeting,” he said, “On Skype.”  
  
“So you called Lindsay?”  
  
“Well, they sent me a text that a meeting was getting ready to happen so I reluctantly participated.”  
  
“Reluctantly?” you asked.  
  
“Well, since I didn’t answer my phone the first ten times, they called Michael and Ben for advice, and then the five of us just had a fucking intervention with Gus.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“I know. By the end of it, I was back on Gus’ side. If I _ever_ hear Mr. and Mrs. Bruckner explain the ‘crucial role anal sex’ has in their lives again, I will kill myself.” He stuck his finger down his throat and gagged for unneeded emphasis.  
  
“So, Gus is coming to visit?”  
  
“Eventually. He’s in some soccer camp thing right now and doesn’t want to come until it’s over. I told him that was fine, and that he could stay two days or two weeks, whatever makes him happy.”  
  
“Well, that was a dramatic turnaround,” you offered, still kind of pissed at him from earlier.  
  
“Gus kind of apologized,” Brian explained. “I think he’s getting shit from his friends.”  
  
“Well, he basically has three sets of gay parents. I’m sure they tease him.”  
  
“So you include yourself in that? I like that,” Brian said and your eyes narrowed as you responded, “Well, I named him, didn’t I?”  
  
*********************  
_”A man needs to know when to ask for help.”_  
  
Teaching Amelia to jump in the pool was no easy task. She was terrified of the ‘jumping’ part even though Brian was only a foot in front of her. Eventually, you got out of the pool and offered to throw her to Brian which got an immediate and frenzied response, “No, Waffle! Don’t frow me!”  
  
“My name is _Justin_ ,” you retorted as you began to search the flower beds for an unsuspecting garden gnome. You knew they’d be close by because Amelia had been spanking the one with its pants down since the first day she got here. You chose one that was fully clothed and sat it right on the edge of the pool, “Watch this, Amelia. He’s gonna jump and Brian’s gonna catch him.”  
  
“You’re just trying to drown him,” Brian said, “And it won’t work. They’re hollow plaster; they float.”  
  
“One…two…three!” you said and then you flung the garden-squatting piece of crap in Brian’s direction. Brian caught him and held him up high above his head while you cheered.  
  
“Hold me like dat, Brime Kinney!” Amelia squealed, her arms thick with floaties so they bounced off her body.  
  
“You have to jump first,” he said, “Be brave. You can do it.”  
  
Amelia closed her eyes, pinching her toes around the edge of the pool and counted, “One…two…free!” and took the plunge. Her slippery form soared over Brian’s head, her arms held out wide like she was the star of _Titanic_ while Sam’s camera just kept on rolling. “Let’s go again, Amelia,” Brian encouraged her. “Get really good at it and we can show Harper when she gets home.”  
  
“Yeah, Brime Kinney, I’m in a moobie,” Amelia declared as she half-swam/half-splashed back to the ladder.  
  
“All the world’s a stage, pipsqueak,” he answered, “Trust me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Amelia said, “I already knowed that.”  
  
You jumped out of the pool and peered in the kitchen door looking for Roger. “Hey,” you said when you found him, “Do we have hot dogs and hamburgers? We should grill out tonight.”  
  
Roger peered into the pantry, “I’ll have to run to the store, but we can make it work.”  
  
“I’ll call Harper and ask her to get what we don’t have on her way home; just give me a quick list. You should stay and eat with us,” you offered.  
  
Roger grinned, “You’re in a good mood again.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I guess it just feels like family night tonight.”  
  
*********************  
_” A song and a snack can turn any moment into an occasion.“_  
  
You think that when you go out of your way to invite the help to hang out with you that they’d appreciate it, but apparently you thought wrong because an hour later when you were desperately trying to conjure up grill-lighting knowledge without Brian’s help, Harper appeared next to you with a brown bag of groceries in her arms. “I got everything on the list…plus some adult beverages,” she declared while pulling out a bottle of Absolut Raspberri. “You don’t know how to light a grill, do you?” she added.  
  
“Yes, I do,” you lied, “But honestly, Roger should do it.”  
  
“Oh, he was pulling out as I was pulling in.”  
  
Brian magically appeared to announce, “No one pulls out in this house. We don’t allow it.” Harper laughed and shoved her groceries into Brian’s chest to prepare herself for the dripping-wet-pink-whirlwind that was coming her way. “Mommmmmy!” Amelia squealed, “I knowed how to jump in the pool ‘cause I’m ‘upposed to ‘cause Brime Kinney showed me and Daddy made a moobie of me jumping and—“  
  
“Let me run inside and change into my bathing suit and you can show me,” Harper said giving her soaked daughter a squeeze.  
  
……  
  
Later that night, an almost-drunk you attempted to seduce a regrettably-sober Brian by implying that you’d like a demonstration of the ‘important role anal sex plays in your lives’ and got more or less rebuffed. “What the hell, Brian? You don’t wanna fuck?” became your second unsuccessful seduction attempt. He put his e-reader down, peered over the top of his glasses and said in all seriousness, “I’m worried about Amelia. When we were in the pool, she kept asking to play with my pink noodle.”  
  
You sighed and put your underwear back on, “She means those long foam things in the pool shed.”  
  
“Whew, that’s a relief.”  
  
“And don’t ask _me_ to play with it tomorrow morning,” you huffed as you laid down, snuggling into a sheet-cocoon that left Brian completely out of luck in the covers department.  
  
*********************  
**ROGER EGGARD’S POV**  
_”How are you going to keep a cleaning lady?”_  
_the following morning_  
  
You were standing in the backyard surveying the ungodly amount of trash from what was apparently a cookout gone wild. The pool boy was skimming the water for bugs and had already made it clear upon his arrival that cleaning up all the trash was not his job. Ordinarily, you might have argued with him, but you were still waiting for Justin and Harper to come down for breakfast, so you had some time to kill. You reached into a cardboard box, unraveled a black trash bag and began to pick up the all the empty cups. Brian had assured you before he left for work that the backyard looked nothing like that when he retired the night before. “Cesaro,” you requested, “Please at least get the gnomes out of the water.” He was skillfully ignoring them.  
  
“Roger.”  
  
You looked up and over your shoulder when you heard your name, and Justin was standing there dressed in khaki pants and a dress shirt but otherwise looking like shit. “We can get our own breakfast, but can I talk to you for a moment?”  
  
You let the sagging trash bag hit the ground and walked over to him, “Hi. Looks like you guys had fun last night.”  
  
Justin was shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting, “Let the maid clean this shit up.”  
  
“It’s okay. Maria will not want to do this. She’ll curse in Spanish all day long. I’ve got it.”  
  
“I don’t get you,” Justin said rather emphatically.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“I don’t get you. I invite you to stay and eat with us last night, and you leave, but you’ll come out here and clean up our trash?”  
  
He seemed pretty aggravated, but you tried to brush it off anyway, “Oh, I really appreciated the invite; it’s just that by the time I was done preparing everything, everyone had already eaten.”  
  
Justin wasn’t buying it, “There was nothing to prepare. We were grilling out.”  
  
You tried again, “I just had some things I had to finish and had to get a few things for the rest of the week.”  
  
“I sent Harper to the store,” he argued.  
  
“I forgot to put some things we needed on the list, that’s all. I just took care of it. I’m sorry I missed the meal.”  
  
Justin sighed and scratched the back of his head, “Yeah, well, maybe we’ll do it again sometime. I don’t know…”  
  
You watched him turn around and walk back into the house. Once the door closed, you pulled out your cell and called Brian. You were done with this charade.  
  
*********************  
**JUSTIN’S POV**  
_"It’s off my desk."_  
  
About an hour after you arrived at Babylon, you were in the club office going over sales reports from the night before when Detective Horvath walked in. “Hey, Karl. Looking for Brian? He’s at Kinnetik.” And before he could respond, you were talking again, your law enforcement jitters resurfacing, “And Rube? He’s in Italy. He’ll be back in—“  
  
Horvath shook his head, “Actually, I was looking for you.”  
  
You stood and rounded the desk, a sinking feeling in your stomach. Your absence the night before may have been officially ‘excused,’ but if something illegal went down on your watch, Brian would have your ass anyway. “Me? Why?” Karl had a folded piece of paper in his hand and you tried to discern what it was to no avail.  
  
“To give you this,” Karl said, extending his arm. You took the paper from him and unfolded it, trying to make sense of what you were reading. It was a computer print out with case numbers and evidence numbers and a bunch of codes you didn’t understand. “Justin, that’s an evidence release from the FBI. They found parts of your stolen computer in that meth explosion that killed Cody Bell.”  
  
“From years ago, you mean?”  
  
“Yeah. The serial number came up as stolen when they were processing the evidence from that bust. I got that report this morning.”  
  
“Cody stole my computer?”  
  
“Well, we don’t know for sure if it was Cody per se because the FBI busted a ring of drug dealers and Cody was just one of them, but Brian reported him bothering you a few years ago, so I’d say he was behind it at the very least. So, I’m sorry the actual computer can’t be returned, but I thought you’d like to have this.”  
  
You were still in shock, trying to wrap your head around the information, “Yeah, thanks. I’d forgotten all about it. Now I feel all creepy again.”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t bother with that. He was blown to smithereens when that meth lab exploded. I’d say the matter is closed.”  
  
“Well, thanks, Karl. I appreciate you bringing this to me.”  
  
“Well, I appreciate you being in town so I could give it to you in person,” he said as he tapped you on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around. Have a great day.”  
  
*********************  
_”Or coming and then going?”_  
  
Immediately after Karl left, you re-examined the form he’d given you and then sent a text to Brian to please call you when he could. You didn’t get a response text until just after three o’clock and all it said was, ‘ _Can you come to my office now plz?_ ’ So you said good-bye to Emmett and drove the short drive to Kinnetik. When you walked in, the receptionist smiled at you and said, “Go on in. He’s ready for you.”  
  
Brian smiled at you and replied to her, “Hold my calls. No interruptions, please.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
You closed his door after hearing that, asking, “So what’s up?” The evidence report was in your hand and Brian looked a little baffled when you handed it to him. “This is what I wanted to tell you about,” you said. Reading the confusion on his face as he read it, you filled him in, “Horvath brought that to me at Babylon this morning. Apparently the FBI found my stolen computer in the evidence cache that Cody’s bust left behind.”  
  
“Are you shitting me?”  
  
“No. They matched the serial numbers. I mean, it’s no good anymore from the explosion, but they found a part or something.”  
  
“Bizarre but interesting,” Brian said, getting up from the desk and leading you over to one of his sofas. “Sit down. We need to talk.”  
  
“Am I in trouble or something?”  
  
He half-smiled, “Not really, but we have an issue we need to resolve.”  
  
“All you’ve done this week is freak me out,” you said as you sat down.  
  
Brian extended his arm, his fingertips resting on your shoulder, “It’s about Roger.”  
  
“What about him?”  
  
“He called me this morning.”  
  
*********************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_”Sorry is bullshit.”_  
  
Perhaps you shouldn’t have attempted this conversation at your office; it was just that it couldn’t wait until you got home tonight. Like it or not, this random Thursday in July would be a turning point in your relationship. Justin’s initial participation in the conversation left you a bit pessimistic about the outcome, “What the fuck did I do this time? Hurt Roger’s feelings or something?”  
  
“No, his feelings aren’t hurt. What happened is my fault; I’ve been keeping something from you that I shouldn’t have.” Justin literally leaned away from you. “Look, I was going to tell you last night, but after I volunteered to put Amelia to bed, you and Harper got shitfaced.”  
  
“We were just having fun, jeesh.”  
  
“Justin, when I came back out to join you guys, Harper was topless and laughing hysterically and you were standing buck naked on the end of the diving board doing what could only be described as attempting to sodomize a garden gnome.”  
  
Justin mumbled, “Well, he deserved it.”  
  
“Just be glad we have high security fences or the Home Owner’s Association would be on our doorstep right about now.”  
  
“Whatever, Brian. That’s not what you called me over here for, so just tell me.”  
  
You felt bad for Justin; this situation had gotten more complicated than you’d ever anticipated. I’m not sure where to start,” you said, “So I’m going to do my best to explain this. It would be helpful if you could stop staring at me like I cheated on you or something.”  
  
“Did you?” he asked, nothing but steel in his expression.  
  
“ _No._ I promise you on my life that this has _nothing_ to do with that. Can you just take a deep breath and calm down?”  
  
His arms were crossed, “Talk, Brian.”  
  
“Okay,” you began with a heavy sigh, “The reason Roger wasn’t at the cookout last night is because he was running an errand for me.”  
  
“What errand?”  
  
“He was going to that organic grocery store to get something I could eat.”  
  
“Why? I sent Harper to the store with his list.”  
  
“What I needed wasn’t on that list or at the store she went to,” you explained.  
  
“You pulled me out of Babylon to talk about our fucking grocery lists?”  
  
This really wasn’t going well. “No. I pulled you out of Babylon to tell you that I’m part of a secret nutrition network that Steve Jobs created.”  
  
“What the _fuck_ are you talking about? Did you eat bad sushi for lunch for something?”  
  
“No,” you tried again, “I eat what iWWINN® - the _World Wide Integrated Nutrition Network_ – tells me to eat. I’m part of a clandestine focus group that includes only twenty-five people. Most of them are celebrities or shitheads, or both--you know, like Anderson Cooper.”  
  
“Whatever weed we have at the house, Brian, you need to ditch it. It’s rancid.”  
  
“Justin, I know this sounds crazy. Trust me; it’s why I didn’t try to explain it before. I’ve been on it for years, and once you hired Roger, I needed him to help me stay on the program since he prepares all of our meals. He gets whatever I need if we don’t have it in the house.” Once you brought Roger into the explanation, Justin seemed to find it more credible, although the suspicious look on his face never went away. “Basically, I paid Roger extra to help me stay on the plan because if I don’t stay on it, I’m out of the network. The twenty-five of us, make up the APPLET-- the _Apple Pilot-Project for Lifestyle Enrichment®_.”  
  
“Like you need your lifestyle enriched, Brian.”  
  
This wasn’t _wwinning_ at all.  
  
“Okay, can you try to see this from my perspective for a minute? I was here…and you…weren’t…and I was making tons of money and fucking around had become tedious, and I was kind of…bored. I knew it was somehow related to Apple and everything sort of snowballed from there. I’m part of their Branding Division. The pilot-project…they’re the ones that sent the appliances for the kitchen and everything.”  
  
“Let me get this straight. You missed me and instead of just picking up the phone and telling me that, you bought a ridiculously expensive car that houses some bitch who stroked your ego and gave you psychotic kitchen appliances?”  
  
You shook your head. How can he even _question_ why you keep in the dark sometimes? “Look, you love your iphone right?” you tried. “You practically sleep with it. Would you give it up?”  
  
“No, but what the fuck does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Well, my automotive secretary is sort of like Siri’s mother or something.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
Justin responded, “Wait a minute. So all this stuff I hear about how Apple tracks everyone who uses their products…it’s true then? They track you?”  
  
“Everywhere.”  
  
“And they talk to the fridge and the dishwasher?”  
  
“Yeah,” you offered hesitantly.  
  
“So how do we get out of this ‘Dharma Initiative’ cluster fuck? Go into witness protection or something?” he asked.  
  
“We don’t. I mean, I don’t want out. It’s a great program. I’m forty, Justin, and still weigh what I did at thirty-six.” He rolled his eyes, “The testing phase is almost done and they’re going to release it to more people. As part of the first focus group, all twenty-five of us have a financial stake in the future of the program. That means more contacts for me and more money for us. ”  
  
“How much more money?”  
  
“Enough to buy up every garden gnome in the world and dump them into a volcano.”  
  
Justin looked very befuddled, blinking rapidly, so you knew there were nothing but random thoughts in a mosh pit inside his brain. One finally emerged, “So wait…why does Anderson hate you?”  
  
You sighed, “Okay…well…you know how he’s in a secret relationship with Gavin Newsome?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well, several years ago at an iWWINN® retreat, Gavin sort of blew me, and I didn’t stop him when Anderson walked in on us. I mean, Anderson acts all laid back on his show, but mark my words, he is one possessive little twat who never forgets _anything._ I mean, of course Gavin wanted to blow me. I don’t have prematurely white hair or a face that would make a better Muppet than a—“  
  
Justin interrupted you, “This is insane. I feel like I’m getting punked or something.”  
  
“That’s understandable. Just take it out on me, not Roger. This isn’t his fault. He’s just doing his job.”  
  
“Fine, I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning,” he said and then got up to leave.  
  
“Wait. Where are you going?” you asked, also jumping to your feet.  
  
“Back to do the job you hired me to do. At least you trust me with that.”

*********************

 **BRIAN’S POV**  
_I guess the change in my pocket just wasn’t enough_  
  
You didn’t want to leave that moment in that way with Justin, but when he’s dead set on digging his heels in, it’s in your best interest not to be underfoot, so you waited until around seven o’clock pm that night and went back over to Babylon with dinner for both of you in tow. You ate together in the Babylon office accompanied by stilted conversation and very little eye contact. He knew he’d pissed you off when you finally asked him, “What the fuck are so pissed about? “  
  
“Seriously? You have to ask me that?”  
  
“Yeah, because I don’t dare hazard a guess. You scold me for not being open with you and then you shut down like this.”  
  
“Secrets. That’s what I’m pissed about, Brian. _Secrets._ I don’t like them, and you already know that anyway, so that makes it twice as bad.”  
  
“What the fuck? You keep secrets from me sometimes. You don’t see me going all Midol on your ass.”  
  
“Really? What secret have I kept from you?” he asked.  
  
…..  
  
“Well…the Eggo thing. You wouldn’t tell me about that. I had to figure that out by myself.”  
  
Justin looked a little shocked, “What do you mean you figured it out?”  
  
“It’s that fucking milk crate in your old studio. You sat on it and it gave you waffle-ass, and then Zeek fucked you.”  
  
“Zeek told you that?”  
  
“No, nobody told me shit. I saw what Richard looked like after he sat there during his break-up with Jon. He came out of there with marks all over his pants.” You knocked on your skull, “I’m smart like that.”  
  
Justin sat back in his chair in a rather dramatic fashion and came at you hard, “The Eggo thing? You think a stupid secret like that is comparable to the secrets you keep from me? Honestly, Brian.”  
  
You were honest, “Well, yeah, I sort of do.”  
  
“Well, that’s fucking stupid. I kept that ‘secret’ so as not to embarrass you. The secrets you keep hurt me.”  
  
“How does knowing about my freaking nutrition program hurt you? “  
  
Justin stood up, walked around the desk and leaned against it with his arms crossed. He was standing so close you could feel the steam rising from his brain, “Did it ever occur to you that I might _want_ to take care of you, Brian? That I married you so I could actually love you and not just when we’re naked? Every part of your life where I might be able to contribute, you farm out to some goddamn robot or hired help—“  
  
“Justin, _you_ hired the chef, not me.”  
  
“Yeah, and thank god I did because, otherwise, you would have never told me about this cult you’re in.”  
  
“Well, if you want to take care of me, then why’d you hire him in the first place?”  
  
“Because…I’m not the best cook in the world, and I wanted both of us to eat well, eat healthy, and have our schedules free to pursue work and shit. I wanted to do that _for_ you as your _partner_ and then you have to come in and co-opt that, too. Hell, it’s not just co-opting; it’s corrupting. The only time I really feel like your equal is when we’re fucking.”  
  
“Well, that’s about eighty percent of your life, so that’s pretty good,” you teased him. He flipped you off. “Justin, come on. I’m not trying to hurt you; I’m trying to make your life, hell _our_ life care-free—“  
  
“I don’t want my life to be ‘care-free;’ I _want_ to _care_ for _you_. _That’s_ what makes me happy. Now, please get out of here so I can work. I’ve got a lot to do after we missed yesterday, and we shouldn’t discuss our personal problems here.”  
  
“Justin---"  
  
“Please. I just need some space, okay?”  
  
You stood up and tried to stay, “You want me to drop out of the program? I will, okay. I’ll drop out.”  
  
“No,” he said emphatically, “You’re missing the point. If you drop out, something else will just take its place. I want you to _grasp_ what I’m saying to you. Now please, out. Let me work. I’ve got a long night ahead of me.”  
  
You left the office and walked the catwalk to the stairs. Halfway down, you stopped, frozen in thought. Your employees were testing the lights and the sound system all around you—everything was flashing and buzzing--and, yet, you just stood there…thinking.  
  
…..  
  
And thinking.  
  
……  
  
And then, slowly, you turned around and walked back to the Babylon office, knocked once on the door and opened it. Justin didn’t look startled; the security cameras were up on the wall in front of his desk; he probably watched you for those few minutes. And although he wasn’t surprised to see you, he did look worn out, his head resting in his hands. You closed the door behind you, leaned against it and made a request, “Can you come here for a minute?” He looked a little puzzled, but got up anyway and walked over to you. “I have something to say,” you offered before he could start up again.  
  
“Okay,” he said…barely.  
  
“When we were in New York we talked about having faith in each other, remember?” He nodded. “Sometimes I feel like you still don’t have any faith in me, like there’s a part of you that thinks this isn’t real…what we have…our life and everything…and all I can tell you from my side of the equation, is that this is as real as it gets…but…Justin, real doesn’t mean perfect.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I know. You’re right,” he conceded.  
  
“And for what it’s worth, I _do_ want you to take care of me—"  
  
“I don’t just mean twenty-four/seven blow jobs, Brian.”  
  
You rolled your eyes, “I’m not talking about blow jobs, Jesus.” You reached out and grabbed his upper arms, pulling him against you. “I mean this,” you said and then you kissed him—hard and fast--and yielding only when you pulled back for a second to tell him, “This is what I want when we part for a few hours or a whole day or whatever; in fact, I don’t just want it, I _expect_ it. Think you can handle that?”  
  
He smiled and looked almost embarrassed, “Yeah. I can handle that.”  
  
“Good,” you said, and the kiss you gave him after that drew him up on his toes and made him initially compliant when you popped the button on his pants and slid your hand down inside his underwear. You were stroking his crack with your finger tip when he responded, “You’re my boss. You can’t sexually harass me at work.” He tried to grab your hand and stop its journey, but you grabbed his wrist and pinned it behind his back.  
  
And then you reminded him, “It’s Thursday, you know. We always have a contest at Babylon on Thursday. What’s tonight’s?”  
  
His eyes opened wide, “Oh shit, Brian. I forgot.”  
  
“Well, you better come up with one.”  
  
He rested his forehead on your chest, tapping his fingers, “Okay…let me think for a second…. okay, I’ve got it: ‘Tightest Butthole.’”  
  
You raised your eyebrow and tried not to laugh, “And you think you’re qualified to judge a contest like that?”  
  
“I have to be; you married me.”  
  
Your tongue rolled inside your cheek, “I’m just going to double check this claim of yours if that’s all right with you.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“I could sue you for this,” he breathed against your neck.  
  
“Go right ahead,” you told him, “It’s worth it.”  
  
  
  
All sections but the last one begin with dialogue from _Queer as Folk_. The last section is lyrics from Cee Lo Green’s _Forget (Fuck) You_.

 

 


	51. Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 48-Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Original publication date on Live Journal: 10/2/14] This is the finale of the series. It was posted in 5 parts on LJ. It's posted in full here.

**BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 48-LEGACY (the finale)**  
  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_and all the roads we have to walk are winding_  
  
On a bitter cold Friday afternoon in November of 2011, you stood in empty commercial retail space, waiting and toying with random coils of wire as they spilled out of the ceiling. You were dressed for work having taken a half day at Kinnetik, and your overcoat, scarf, and gloves weren’t helping that much in the drafty room. But the cold was really the least of your worries; most of them were focused on Justin and what he’d decided to do. He’d been home for less than a year, a year where more changed than ever stayed the same....  
  
************  
**GABE ZIRROLLI'S POV**  
_everybody wants a box of chocolates, and a long stem rose,  
everybody knows_  
  
_May 2011_  
  
Falling in love--it's something you've indulged in a time or two, usually as some misplaced infatuation or physical encounter that was only meant to happen once. In the back of your mind, you held tightly to your list of preferred traits in a boyfriend; you just never expected to find all of them in one person on a day reserved for the dead.  
  
After the funeral, you couldn't stop thinking about Daniel, about the blow job he gave you at the restaurant, at the refinement he oozed regardless of the crude act he was performing. The blow job was great, but you found yourself more interested in the expensive taste he had in clothes, at his polite, kind demeanor, at his expansive vocabulary (after all, you lived with your brother). After leaving the city that sad day, you kept in touch regularly, mostly texts and some phone calls that, at first, were predicated on Daniel's well being after the tragedy. You needed to see him again in person, though, to see if there was actually something real between you or if you were projecting. You made the gesture to come see him, the guise of needing to check in on your parents and their restaurant a perfectly legitimate reason for the trip. During the first visit, Daniel took you out to a very expensive dinner. With any other guy, you would've thought he was trying too hard to impress you (or fuck you), but not Daniel. He was--you could tell--very interested in you and very used to very expensive dinners, and the two of you had difficulty figuring out anything you didn't have in common besides, well, salary. The visits increased and became opportunities to meet your parents, go to the movies, the theater, always just the two of you getting along famously. He was courting you, and out of respect to the tradition and his gentlemanly efforts, neither of you made mention of the initial sexual act that brought you together. Over time, though, it began to seem like that was the only sexual act the two of you _would_ be engaging in. You could tell he was attracted to you and you made it clear that the reverse was also true, yet it took an actual inquiry on your part to ever get to see the upstairs of his brownstone. Daniel blushed when you made your move, when you made sure the kiss you were sharing felt like it needed a second act, but he eventually capitulated and invited you up his stairs and into his room. What came next felt almost like another tawdry sexual act, a quick fuck and a weird moment during which he agreed that you could stay the night. After that, an awkward vibe pulsed into the room, and thinking that perhaps he was just nervous because it had been awhile since he'd been intimate with someone, you curled your body around his, not realizing that every demon he'd been fighting since Alan's murder would see that vulnerability in him and strike. It was a very long and agonizing night, one of tears and constant apologizing on Daniel's part and one of constant reassurance on yours that no apology was necessary.  
  
This man you were falling in love with was thoroughly haunted.  
  
************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_'cuz if love won't fly on its own free will,  
it's gonna catch that outbound plane_  
  
_September 2011_  
  
A lunch meeting with Gabe was a common occurrence and often the best time the two of you could free your schedules and really talk about profit in the restaurant industry, but there’s was something about the halting way he walked into your office on a bright and brisk September day that made your brow furrow. “You okay?” you asked him, “You look either worried or constipated, but I can’t tell which.”  
  
He laughed, “A little of both probably.”  
  
The two of you were spreading your food out on the conference table when he took a deep breath and said, “Brian, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m giving you my resignation today.” He slid an envelope across the table to you.  
  
You opened it and read the letter trying not to choke on the orange chicken in your mouth. “This says you’re going back to the city to run your parents’ restaurant-–“  
  
“I am. They’re old, Brian. They need to retire.”  
  
You knew this day would come, yet you still felt unprepared and sort of bothered. Replacing Gabe, an employee who catered to your every whim…the thought exhausted you. You were certain Gabe could hear it in your voice so you immediately tried to disguise it, “Understandable. So Zeek? He goes, too?”  
  
“I thought that might be the good news in this scenario,” Gabe joked.  
  
You laughed, “Well, um…no comment.”  
  
Gabe sat down and got serious, “Yes. It’s our parents’ restaurant. We both belong there. I’m sure you understand.”  
  
You sighed, “What about Rube? How’s he going to survive without Zeek?”  
  
Gabe laughed, “Rube already knows, and he’s totally fine with it. If you want to remove him from Babylon, you’re going to need the jaws of life to do it.”  
  
“This letter…it doesn’t say when you’re leaving.”  
  
Gabe handed you a fortune cookie and replied, “As soon as you can replace me, I guess,” and then he paused, “This is hard for me, too. I love Zeal. This is just something I have to do.”  
  
“I understand,” you said because you did, “I think you’re making the right decision…but replacing you won’t be easy.”  
  
“Give Emmett a shot,” Gabe said, “He’s fabulous and not just because he’s so very, very gay. He’ll serve you well.”  
  
“He’s not as fiscally disciplined as you are.”  
  
Gabe countered, “Brian, I’ve taught him a lot. He understands margins and portion sizes and that he has to cost something out before he adds it to the menu. And I’m only a phone call away if he needs help. But honestly,” he paused, “Dan and I have to find a place to live first and his place still hasn’t sold, and he’s still….“  
  
……  
  
“Pretty fucked up about everything that happened?” you asked to break the awkward silence.  
  
Gabe looked more uncomfortable in that moment than you’d ever seen him as he spoke, “Some days he’s ready to sell and others he thinks selling that townhome is some kind of an insult to Alan’s memory because, you know, he…died…there.”  
  
“Dan’s here all the time. He’s stopped seeing patients, hasn’t he?” you asked.  
  
“He took a leave of absence.”  
  
“What about Jon? Can’t Jon help him?”  
  
Gabe shook his head, a tired demeanor spreading across his face, “He’s too close to the situation. Dan equates him with that madness. They talk, but not about anything important. He talks to me…about it…sometimes, and I love him, but I’ve run out of ideas about how to help him. He has night terrors about finding Alan's body. I wake up...and he's in the fetal position next to me just sobbing...."  
  
"So he needs help? Maybe professional help?" you tried.  
  
"Have you ever tried telling a shrink that he needs a shrink?" Gabe asked as if you'd asked him to climb a mountain in that question.  
  
“Okay, well can I ask you something gay-man-to-gay-man? I don’t want you to take offense--.”  
  
“Of course you can.”  
  
You chose your words carefully, releasing them slowly, “Your feelings for Dan, and his feelings for you…are they going to be there when the fallout from this mess is finally over?”  
  
Gabe nodded, “Yeah…our feelings are real; they’re just…buried under all this--; god, that was a terrible choice of words.”  
  
“So, you love him?”  
  
Gabe smiled, “I know; it happened fast and under weird circumstances, but yeah…I love him.”  
  
You unrolled your fortune and sighed: _If you want the rainbow, you must put up with the rain._  
  
************  
_now we’ve come so far, so fast_  
  
Ordinarily, you would’ve picked up the phone and called Justin to hash out the news, but he was on day two of a week long road trip to Georgia with Harper and Sam. He’d come to you two weeks prior to tell you, “Look, Harper wants to go visit her old neighborhood and her Mom’s hospital and grave site and stuff. She feels like she needs to be there and tell her what happened to Alan. It’s her process, I guess. So Sam and I decided that we’ll just take a road trip—“  
  
“Because you’re the only one who has a car,” you added.  
  
“No, because we want closure, too. I need to process this myself; I need to get it out of my head and onto the canvas. It’s hard for me to do it here; I feel so removed. Harper has a friend in the city who has a little girl about Amelia’s age, so she’s going to stay with her.”  
  
You nodded, “Okay, if that’s what you need to do. You going to plan this trip out or just—“  
  
“Fly by the seat of our pants,” Justin said, “We want the journey to have an element of happenstance.”  
  
His choice of words never ceases to amuse you. “Okay, well, just promise me that you won’t drive when you’re tired and won’t exist on gas station food.”  
  
“The driving, sure, but we’re going to prove that you can live on Diet Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and beef jerky.”  
  
“Um, excuse me, but _I_ am the only beef you jerky.”  
  
“Yeah, and I 'jerkied' it this morning, so you'll live.”  
  
……  
  
But later that same night around half past three in the morning, you were lying in bed smoking a cigarette and starting to worry. Every so often, you nudged Justin to see if he was semi-awake, and eventually he rolled over and lay his head on your chest. “What’s the matter?” he asked in an almost-whisper.  
  
You sighed before you spoke, “The more I think about it, the more I don’t like this idea.”  
  
“What idea?”  
  
“This road trip, and hear me out before you start in on me—“  
  
He propped himself up on his pillow and looked at you, “Okay,” his voice tainted with the slightest bit of aggravation.  
  
You smashed your cigarette, “I’m not sure the three of you should go down there alone. You’re all still grieving, and Harper, Jesus, she’s still walking an emotional tightrope.”  
  
“I’m just trying to take the next logical step, okay? Sam will take his camera and Harper and I will take our sketch pads, and maybe we’ll work through some of this. Have some faith in me, Brian. I’m not trying to be a hero.”  
  
“Justin, I do—in you, and in Sam. Just promise me that if you get down there and this ‘processing’ turns into a nightmare, that you’ll let me know. I mean, they can fly back, and I’ll fly down and ride back with you or whatever. Okay? Just promise me.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
You rolled onto your side and pulled him against you, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, and then he reached back and touched you in that way that reminds you of taking care of him after he got hurt; it comforted and saddened you at the same time.  
  
……  
  
On the day of their departure, you had Roger fill a cooler with fresh fruit and vegetables and stow it in Justin’s car. And when you kissed him good-bye, you stuffed a bag of weed in the pocket of his jeans, advising him, “Use it in good health.” He immediately gave it back, “We don’t need pot. You’ll always know where we are, okay? You don’t need to worry.”  
  
“Do you have your car charger?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, I’ll miss you, Sunshine. Be sure to get your own room so we can have phone sex.”  
  
His eyes lit up, “Oh my god, you’re going to put me on face time and then just lay the phone on your dick, aren’t you?”  
  
“Well,” you admitted, “I do love technology.”  
  
“This is it…the last stage of your devolution.”  
  
You hugged him and pushed him toward his car, “Don’t spoil it for me. It’ll be a very special moment in my life.”  
  
************  
_you can linger too long in your dreams_  
  
Two days after your conversation with Gabe, you were sitting in your office glancing around your desk at the piles of work that needed to be done. Not one stack interested you; you felt unsettled inside, and truthfully, a little lonely because Justin had been gone for days. You looked out the window at the perfect fall day and decided that you were taking a very early lunch. At ten thirty-seven a.m., you walked into Zeal on a mission. Emmett jumped the minute you walked in perhaps thinking that this was his chance to further impress you, but you waived him off, “I’m not here for you.”  
  
He looked mildly offended, “Well…okay…Gabe’s in his office—“  
  
You looked in that direction and saw Gabe and Zeek arguing, both pointing up at a fluorescent light fixture that was malfunctioning.  
  
“Swear to God,” Emmett said apparently following on your heels, “Zeek just now realized that the part he needs is called a ‘ballast’ and not a ‘ballads.’  
  
You smirked a little, “I’m not looking for them either. I’m looking for….” and you finished your sentence with a shift of your eyes, and that’s all Emmett needed to respond, “He’s in there, as usual,” and he pointed to the closed French doors to the large party room. “Thanks,” you said, and then feeling guilty for brushing him off, you added, “You and me…we’ll talk soon about all this, okay?”  
  
“Sure,” Emmett said though you could tell he didn’t quite believe you.  
  
……  
  
The large party room at Zeal had been Gabe’s idea a year ago, to install paned-glass French doors so the area could be closed off. It allowed Zeal to cater to the business crowd at lunch, gave companies a place to dine and make important decisions or have idiotic employee-of-the-month celebrations in private, but these days, it was mostly occupied by one man who brought his laptop and headphones and sat in the back left corner. He’d pretend to work, but you had an inkling that he was spending his days mastering Spider Solitaire. The door to that room always sticks a little, and opening it took the room’s inhabitant by surprise. He jumped in his seat and immediately pulled his headphones out, his voice almost stuttering, “Brian—hey--hello—it’s good to see you.”  
  
“Doc,” you acknowledged.  
  
Daniel’s face filled with an awkward smile and then he began to pack up, apologizing, “I’m so sorry. If you need this room, it’s no problem. I can work somewhere else.” He yanked his power supply from the wall as you sat down across from him and said, “No, no, I don’t need this room today. I was just kind of…hoping…you were here. I need your help with something…if you don’t mind.”  
  
Daniel seemed immediately relieved before he wasn’t, “Well, certainly,” he swallowed, “What can I help you--? Wait, is Justin okay? Are they okay? Have you heard from them?”  
  
“Oh, yeah…they’re fine. Talked to Justin this morning. Their goal today is to visit Ruth’s hospital. I was actually hoping you could help _me_ with something.”  
  
You were certain that Daniel’s guilt around occupying your party room on and off for months was contributing to his charitable spirit, “Well, certainly. Of course. What can I do?”  
  
“Up for a little drive?” you asked.  
  
************  
_I'm starting with the man in the mirror;  
I'm asking him to make a change_  
  
_"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, September 20, 2011. The time is eleven twelve a.m. The current temperature is sixty-seven degrees under sunny skies. You may enter your destination now.”_  
  
“NAVIGATION OFF.”  
  
“ _Discontinuing navigation. Thank you.”_  
  
Daniel examined your console and remarked, “I’ve heard about this car—from Gabe, I mean. He loves it.”  
  
You laughed, “He’s the only one that does. Trust me.” You left the windows rolled down on purpose, thinking that the moments (current and future) could use a nice breeze; the air made you less nervous.  
  
“It’s a beautiful day,” Daniel said.  
  
“So, have you and Gabe ever had face time sex?” you asked.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“’Cause Justin and I did last night; I mean, we tried, but I discovered something new about myself during the process—“  
  
“This sounds personal, Bri—“  
  
“I discovered that I’m kind of an old-fashioned guy when it comes to phone sex. I like to close my eyes and listen to his voice.”  
  
“Okay,” Daniel said, the tone of his voice making it clear he wanted you to change the subject.  
  
“So have you and Gabe tried it…oh, wait…probably not because you’re always here, huh?”  
  
“Brian, where are we going?”  
  
“Do you mean literally or figuratively?” you ask him.  
  
Daniel sighed and turned his body toward yours, “Both, I guess.”  
  
……  
  
You made another sharp right turn-albeit conversationally, “You know what, Doc? You and I are a lot alike, and I don’t mean because of our fondness for young artists—“  
  
“I don’t know what we’re doing.”  
  
“We’re a lot alike because when we’re at the top of our game, we both dig deep inside of people to pull out the kernel of truth and get paid handsomely for it,” you explained.  
  
Daniel turned away and looked out his window, “Brian, I know I’m not at the top of my game right now. That’s not necessary.”  
  
“No, no, stay with me here, Doc. I need you. We’re also alike because we approach our personal lives with unwavering conviction.”  
  
“Unwavering conviction?”  
  
“Sometimes to our own detriment.”  
  
“Gabe isn’t quitting because of me; he’s quitting to run his parents’ restaurant; you can’t fault either of us for that.”  
  
You put your hand on his shoulder, firmly, “I don’t want to lose Gabe, nobody would, but I could give a fuck about Zeal right now. _That_ will work itself out. We’re going to talk about the things that don’t.”  
  
“Don’t what?”  
  
“Don’t work themselves out.”  
  
His regret seemed sadly genuine, “I have no idea what you’re getting at, Brian. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just a little slow today.”  
  
You pointed to the upcoming intersection. The road was ending, offering a turn to either side, but you drove straight across and into a hotel parking lot. Daniel became agitated, “Brian, I know I could stay here instead of with Gabe and spend my days in my room waiting for him to get off work, but I can’t for some reason, okay? I don’t know why; I just can’t.”  
  
The plan was officially in motion, “Dan, this hotel has nothing to do with you. We’re here for me. And for the record, I don’t care how or where you spend your days, and you are always more than welcome at any of my fine establishments.” The parking deck was virtually empty on the second level save a few abandoned vehicles and random piles of decaying leaves. You parked in the same place you always do and felt infused with hope and sadness at the same time. Daniel questioned you, “Why didn’t we just park in front of the hotel? There were plenty of spaces.”  
  
“We’re not going into the hotel.”  
  
His brow furrowed in confusion, “Then what are we doing?”  
  
“Get out. I want to show you something.”  
  
************  
_we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales_  
  
You led a bewildered but finally compliant Daniel to the exact spot and then put your hands on his shoulders, advising him, “Stay right here.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
And then you walked back to the car. When you got to your car door, you turned around and told him, “This is how far away I was.”  
  
“From what?”  
  
“From the reason I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”  
  
Daniel looked down at the pavement, took a deep breath; his body shifted like he was putting on new and almost too snug invisible clothing, and then he looked up at you the way he used to when you first met him, when things got tough in New York, “Go on.”  
  
“I was this close and I couldn’t stop him,” you swallowed hard. “I yelled and I ran, and you know the funny thing is that I have long legs, you know? And Justin complains about it, about how one of my steps equals two of his, and ironically, that night they weren’t long enough.”  
  
“Can you show me where his attacker was in relation to you?” Daniel asked.  
  
You wiped your mouth with your hand, pushing down a sour taste in the back of your throat, as you walked over to where Hobbs was standing that night. “So he was close to Justin,” Daniel surmised.  
  
“Even closer with a bat,” you added.  
  
“And how do you feel being this close to it now?”  
  
“Kind of queasy,” you confessed. “But, this is the last time I’m coming back here. Justin’s off processing his shit and I’m going to deal with mine. I just thought that, maybe, you’d be a good guy to have around while I attempted this.”  
  
He bought your rational, “Fair enough. So you think your long legs were a match for a guy that was about three times closer to Justin and wielding a baseball bat?”  
  
“Well, when you put it that way,” you said, “And, you know, when we were in New York, when everything happened, I made a promise to him, to Justin.”  
  
“You did?”  
  
“That I would forgive myself for this and stop holding myself responsible.”  
  
“And we’re here today because that’s easier said than done? Right?”  
  
“Right,” you agreed.  
  
Daniel began to walk back to the car with a look on his face that you suspected was the main reason Justin bonded with this guy to begin with, “I’d be…honored…to help you Brian. Granted, I’m probably not going to hit one out of the park --- okay, that was a horrific analogy, I apologize. I just mean that I’m not at my best right now, but whatever I can do—“  
  
“Come on," you said, "Let’s find somewhere to talk.”  
  
************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV**  
_It's lonely out in space_  
  
Since the day Alan died, you felt yourself spinning inward, deeper and deeper into a cocoon. And because you had the means and the authority to be your own boss, you’d enveloped yourself—just let it happen--with full on determination. The isolation became comfortable and then almost cozy. Nowhere inside that cocoon were memories of Alan—of helping him breakthrough his crippling psychological issues, of finding him beaten and bloody outside your front door, of sitting in a hospital waiting for a verdict--permitted. You’d annexed everyone who challenged your way of being to a cursory role in your life and exiled yourself from your townhome…the scene of the crime. Your shell was going to crack eventually; you knew it had to, but the day and time were always so elusive.  
  
‘Somewhere to talk’ somehow became a journey with Brian that day. First, he drove to Gabe’s place and told you to go inside and change into something like jeans and a t-shirt. You didn’t tell him that you had to borrow from Gabe, that your pattern of denial had extended to your wardrobe, that you wore a dress shirt and dress pants every day because to dress down would mean admitting things were changing. Next, he drove to his loft where you found the empty spaciousness inviting. You were sitting on a sofa admiring the stark maleness of the place when Brian, now in jeans himself, sat down on the opposite sofa and began to prep a bong.  
  
“We’re getting baked,” he told you before you could even object.  
  
“I don’t smoke marijuana, Brian.”  
  
“You do now,” he said with a smile, offering it to you after taking the first hit.  
  
You told your first secret, “These aren’t my clothes; they’re Gabe’s. He’ll kill—be angry with me if they stink of pot tonight.”  
  
“Not if it’s my pot,” Brian offered with a smile.  
  
You hadn’t smoked since med school, but Brian didn’t seem like the kind of person people ever said ‘no’ to, so you acquiesced. When the THC finally began to take effect, you felt a courage bubbling up inside you, and maybe that and a softer veneer on Brian gave you the guts to ask him, “Do you remember when we were having dinner in New York and I tried to ask you a question about the painting in the tunnel, and you and Justin suddenly--?”  
  
“Disappeared?”  
  
“Yeah. I want an answer to my question. I want to know about that painting.”  
  
Brian smiled a little, “It’s funny you ask about that because you remember a couple months ago when Gus came to visit for a long weekend?”  
  
“Oh…yeah. He looks so much like you. I mean, he’s so tall! He’s a great kid.”  
  
“Yeah, well, before he got here and unbeknownst to me, he found Justin’s _CNN_ appearance online and suddenly had all these questions.”  
  
“About what happened to Justin?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, and I didn’t really realize until then that I’d never told him, and his mothers never told him because they thought it was my place to bring it up, and of course, I never did. I mean, I couldn’t predict that Justin would want to come back, that it would ever be relevant to Gus. He’s only eleven years old.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“So, I tried to tell Gus, to explain it to him, and I guess my version of it didn’t suit Justin, so he just took over and started telling Gus everything that happened like I wasn’t even in the room anymore.”  
  
“Interesting. How did you feel about that?”  
  
“I don’t know…I guess kind of helpless…because you know how Justin is when he’s determined to do something. You can’t stop him. He’s such a self-possessed person sometimes.”  
  
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. ‘Helpless’ can’t have felt good?”  
  
Brian sort of snorted and laughed at little, “Justin is the only person who ever makes me feel that way. I mean, and this is a terrible thing to say, but _I_ was the one who saw what happened to him; Justin doesn’t even remember the actual event really; he has flashes at best. So why can’t _I_ tell my own son what happened? I didn’t stop him or say anything to him about it, but honestly, it pissed me off.”  
  
“What do you think would’ve happened if you’d stopped him, if you insisted on telling the story?”  
  
Brian smiled and rolled his eyes, “Honestly? I’d be in the biggest invisible dog house you’ve ever seen. And it’s haunted, too, so fuck that.”  
  
“That doesn’t surprise me, Brian; that’s a very normal feeling to have given what you’ve both been through.”  
  
“Well, that’s just the first stop on our PTSD-sponsored tour today. You want to know about that painting? Let’s go.”  
  
************  
_as I listened through the cemetery trees_  
  
Fifteen minutes later you were standing on Chris Hobbs’ gravesite while Brian reclined on the top of headstone. The majestic oaks in the cemetery seemed to be standing guard around the two of you, their foliage determined to distract anyone who might’ve glanced in your direction. “This is it,” Brian said, “This is the genesis for that painting, for what Justin painted and for what Alan recreated in the tunnels. It started here.” He looked way too comfortable sitting on the edge of a headstone…especially _this_ headstone; you didn’t like it; it felt wrong, but you pressed him anyway, “Why is this the genesis?”  
  
“Well, remember when I came to New York that night and picked him up in front of your place? I know you remember because you were looking out the window at us.”  
  
You hate thinking about that night, but again, you pushed past the discomfort, “Yes, I remember.”  
  
“I brought him back here and we went to the funeral together. It was an intense few days.”  
  
“I’ll bet. And when Justin came back to New York, he was somehow different.”  
  
Brian seemed to perk up a little at that point, “Different how? What do you mean?”  
  
You sighed, “Well, Justin and even Harper, they were always very open about their creativity, their process, their work, and when he came back from—“ you stopped and made a sweeping circular motion with your hands, “Well, when he came back from this, everything changed. He started working at night a lot and when he left in the mornings, he locked the studio.”  
  
“He locked you out of a room in your own home?” Brian asked.  
  
“Yes, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t get in there if I needed to; I just felt that…well, I felt that anger that would’ve sent you to the dog house, so I didn’t do it. For all the talent and insight Justin has, sometimes he’s very…protective, I guess.”  
  
Brian laughed and relaxed his arms, “He’s still like that. I stay out of his studio most of the time unless he invites me in. I don’t fuck with his process. Learned my lesson about that.”  
  
“It’s kind of funny. Two older men give him a place to work and both get shut out,” you observed.  
  
“Never say ‘older’ when you’re referring to me,” Brian said with a very serious look on his face.  
  
“Duly noted. Pretend it never happened,” you apologized and changed the subject as you sat down on the grass, “You know, Justin was really guarded about that first painting he got into a show. The one I met him in front of and tried to buy—“  
  
“My money moves fast, I guess,” Brian shrugged but finally came down from the headstone and sat on the grass with you, crossing his long legs and leaning against it.  
  
You picked up a skinny stick and starting poking the ground with it, “I don’t think it was just your money moving fast that night.”  
  
“That’s fair, I guess. You know, he didn’t even tell me about that show; I found out by accident when his computer was stolen from Harper’s old place.”  
  
That was new and significant information to you, “Really? Is that why you bought it? Because he didn’t invite you?”  
  
Brian looked conflicted, guilty and a little surprised when he answered you, “I never thought about that, but I kind of think so now. I sort of wanted to get him back, I guess. Take something he was denying me. God, that’s fucked up.” You were about to say something when Brian looked up and continued, “Plus, something in me knew that if he was keeping it from me, it had something to do with me or with us.”  
  
“Why do you say that?”  
  
“I don’t know, I guess because Justin can be guarded about his work but he can also be really laissez faire, too. He either cares about it because it comes from a real place inside him or he doesn’t give a shit and just thinks about it as a commodity or a past time. It’s a defense mechanism. When he got hurt and couldn’t draw for awhile and had to learn new ways to create, something sort of split in two inside him. I think it did, anyway.”  
  
“That’s interesting.” You looked up at a middle age couple heading toward another gravesite with flowers hanging from their hands and then went back to focusing on Brian, “It’s not uncommon for people with PTSD to experience a type of dichotomy.”  
  
“When he came back here, he destroyed that painting when he found it hanging in my office, my home office across from our bedroom.” Brian looked away from you and lit a cigarette after he said that to you, but his body looked relieved after the admission.  
  
“How? How did he destroy it?”  
  
“He practically dumped this primer crap all over it, and it’s fucking huge—“  
  
“I remember.”  
  
“He keeps it propped up against a wall in his studio. You know, like, he doesn’t want me to have it but he wants the wrecked thing to still be in our house like some reminder to me of this crime I committed when I bought it.”  
  
“He lied to me about it the night I met him, Brian. I saw something in that painting, something very dark, and he looked at me like I had three heads or something. I saw some type of violence in it.”  
  
“Did he tell you to fuck off?” Brian asked.  
  
“Now that I think about it, he told me he has violent feelings _about_ it, but he doesn’t see it in the work.”  
  
Brian laughed, “Okay, I’m not a shrink, and that sounds like a load of crap to me.”  
  
“It was, and I knew it was.” You remembered Justin telling you that you were wrong about everything but then accepting your invitation that night. You said nothing to Brian along those lines, but started to realize that that’s the reason Justin went with you. You were on to something that night, and Justin wasn’t going to leave you alone with it. You asked Brian, “Justin can be almost unbearably persistent sometimes, don’t you think?”  
  
Brian shook his head and laughed, “He practically stalked me, but you have to understand, I’d fucked the virginal-living-daylights out of him. Who wouldn’t want to go back to paradise?”  
  
“You can only lose your virginity once, Brian.”  
  
“It always felt like more than once with him. Sometimes it still does.” And then he got quiet, took a long drag off his cigarette and stared off in the distance for a minute or so. You spoke once Brian seemed to come back to the moment, “That’s what’s happening to me with what happened to Alan. It happens over and over and over.”  
  
“I know,” Brian said, “That’s why I had this crazy idea that maybe…we can help each other.”  
  
“That’s kind of you.”  
  
“I’m serious, Doc. What happened to Alan is not your fault. You couldn’t have prevented it. I mean, the cops—those assholes—they were coming for him.”  
  
“I know that now. He was beating the system, Alan was,” you said, “He and Stitch figured out how to take care of all those people down there for free.”  
  
“It wasn’t free,” Brian said. “The cost just wasn’t apparent at the time of purchase.”  
  
You broke the stick in half and stuck both pieces in the ground hard, “Why do you say that?”  
  
Brian reached in his leather jacket and pulled out a flask and handed it to you, “Here. Don’t worry, it’s clean and full of very expensive whiskey.” You opened it slowly and took a swig as he continued, “I know that because the same thing happened with Justin. He had bad blood with this piece of shit buried underneath us. I tried to warn him once but he wouldn’t listen. It’s like Justin said in his interview on TV, he and Alan existed outside the bounds of acceptability. Justin within his peer group and Alan within society.” Again, he wore out his cigarette, sending the smoke on some far away mission.  
  
“I was making real progress with Alan, Brian. _Real_ progress. He had overcome so much,” you started to cry and didn’t even care, “He was going to take Justin’s place in the studio. I hadn’t even told Harper yet because I wanted to give him the chance to tell her. She would’ve been so proud of him.” The grass got blurry around your feet; you picked up a leaf and it crumbled in your hand.  
  
“Yeah, well Justin got accepted to Dartmouth before he was bashed. Fucking Dartmouth; that’s how smart he is. He turned it down to go to art school, to follow his dream. And for what it’s worth, I was making real progress with him, too. That night, after I danced with him, I had less than ten minutes of knowing that I…kind of…loved him… before he was attacked in front of me. It was like…and this is going to sound really self-centered, but I don’t know how else to explain it; it was like I finally accepted my feelings for him and then had to watch them get massacred right in front of my face.”  
  
"Wow."  
  
"And that's not even the end of it. Not only do I see someone I love be almost killed in front of me; years later some homophobic cunt decides to plant a bomb in Babylon, and I end up running through my own destroyed night club trying to find him, to find all my friends after it goes off. And then I decide after all that trauma, that I should finally tell Justin I love him while we're both in shock and surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances. I mean, that is seriously messed up in so many ways."  
  
"The metaphoric potential alone is a bit astounding," you agreed.  
  
"Right, that I can only express love after horrific tragedy," Brian added.  
  
"Can you _feel_ love when there's nothing tragic going on?"  
  
Brian paused and looked off in the distance; the question seemed to vex him. "I'm not sure," he finally said, "I think I feel it when it's already over. I don't think I feel it in real time. Okay, that's weird."  
  
You reassured him, "No, not really. It's not uncommon. It's the way you process it, I guess. Kind of like how these young guys can go fight a war and not realize how truly scarred they are until months after they come home."  
  
Brian shook his head, "But that equates love with horrible trauma."  
  
"Some people react that way to positive attention or affection. For a myriad of reasons, perhaps low self esteem, perhaps dysfunctional core relationships early in life--"  
  
"Bingo, I think we have a winner there."  
  
"I believe that if you aren't given love and shown love as a child that you struggle with feeling and expressing it as an adult. Like with Alan, he had very strange ways and went to a lot of trouble to love the people in his life. All those people he took care of every single day and being the kid that Harper remembered to keep her grounded. He was abandoned by his father and then by society at large, and yet he kept working and working to make everything all right for everyone else."  
  
Brian's posture opened up a bit, "Jon says that people repeat the same patterns over and over trying to recreate a moment until they get it right. That it's futile--"  
  
"That you become like a hamster stuck in a wheel," you added.  
  
"Why can't we just stop repeating?"  
  
"We can. It's not about the ability; it's about being able to handle the anxiety that comes with stopping a routine or a pattern. We don't fear the outcome; we fear our own feelings: insecurity, abandonment, loss, pain, and even confusion."  
  
Brian laughed a little, "And yet it's never the feeling that kills you--"  
  
You smiled, "Right. It's the coping mechanism. The over-eating, the drinking, the drugs, smoking, whatever, you name it."  
  
"You don't have any obvious coping mechanisms," Brian observed. "I find that a little strange."  
  
You chuckled a little and pointed to your temple, "Mine are in here, locked away, however, I think I can get a gold medal in avoidance anytime I want."  
  
Brian pressed you, "You don't drink to excess; you don't smoke--"  
  
You interrupted him, "I have OCD. Ever since I was a kid. My dad, he was doing everything a regular guy could think of to help me, but then...he died suddenly."  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know that."  
  
"I was thirteen. The things that happen to you when you're a child; they last forever don't they?" you pondered.  
  
Brian sighed, "Yeah, I guess they do."  
  
“It’s a blessing that Justin doesn’t quite remember what happened to him,” you admitted to Brian, “I wish I didn’t remember finding Alan like that."  
  
“I have that, too," Brian said, "I can never forget what happened to Justin. That’s what I’m trying to put to rest, but you’ll make faster work of it than I did. You’re a shrink; I had the coping skills of a Neanderthal man.”  
  
“Being a shrink usually makes it worse,” you joked, though you weren’t really kidding, “Sometimes I think I’ll never get those images out of my head or those feelings out of my heart—“  
  
“I completely get that. If what happened to Justin had happened in front of my loft, I’d probably be dead from alcohol poisoning right now.” Brian gathered his legs up and leaned forward, waving his cigarette as he spoke with great determination, “But I want you to listen to me. Gabe Zirrolli has been a fucking godsend to me, and he loves you, and you love him, and I’m not going to let you fuck this up, Doc. I’m just not. I can’t fix the past; I can’t change anything that’s happened, but I understand this guilt you have. I’ve worn it like a tacky, hand knitted sweater for a decade. I’m going to help you. You and I are going to New York and we’re going back to your townhome—“  
  
“Brian, you got very sick there. I don’t think that’s a good id—“  
  
“Shut up. And we’re going back to your townhome and we’re going to pack that place up and put it on the market, and you and Gabe are going to find a really, really gay place to live, and you’re going to get on with your fabulous lives. In fact, once you put that place on the market, I’ll run interference with the realtor for you. I’ll field the offers if needed. You tell me what you want for it, and I’ll make it happen.”  
  
You were sort of stunned at Brian’s insistent offer but also sort of relieved that you didn’t have to face this alone, drag Gabe through it with you or god help you, tackle it with Jon. “Why would you do this? You had a terrible time up there; you had a dissociative break for god’s sake.”  
  
“Because you took care of Justin; you looked after him, gave him a safe place to work. You and Jon, you took care of both of us when Alan—“  
  
“Well, avoidance is a powerful thing, Brian. We didn’t want to face Alan’s death either.”  
  
“I don’t care what the reason was. You cared enough about Justin to help us, and I don’t forget that kind of thing. And helping you, maybe it’ll help me get outside myself in a good way. See this shit from a different prospective. And I think we should do it while Justin and Harper are gone. Let’s start tomorrow.”  
  
His suggestion gave you chills over your entire body, “ _Tomorrow?_ Oh god, no, I haven’t even talked to Harper about this. It’s where she works; it’s her studio; I can’t just take it away from her like that.”  
  
“We’re not going to take a demolition ball to it, Dan. We’re going to clean it out and put it on the market. She doesn’t paint there anymore anyway. You know that. She’s squeezed back in with Sam at that shithole.”  
  
“How can you just clear your schedule like this?”  
  
“Because I own the fucking business, Doc. It’s a family emergency. End of story.”  
  
“Are you going to tell Justin what we’re doing?” you asked.  
  
“Yeah, I’m not going to lie to him. I’ll tell him tonight when he calls.”  
  
“Before the phone sex?”  
  
“Well, maybe after,” he conceded with a wide smile.  
  
************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_everybody knows that the diced are loaded,  
everybody rolls with their fingers crossed_  
  
Truthfully, getting Daniel’s consent was much easier than getting Justin’s. When he called around nine p.m. that night, the conversation didn’t exactly go as you expected…  
  
“Hey,” you said on the second ring.  
  
_”Hey. How are you?”_  
  
“Good, I miss you, though,” you said.  
  
_”I miss you, too. Are you okay?”_  
  
“Of course; how was your day?”  
  
_”Pretty crazy. I mean, we spent most of it at the hospital where Harper and Alan used to visit Ruth. It’s completely changed, of course; it’s been modernized, but Harper was able to find the same power pole that her father used to lean against and wait for them to come out. She got pretty emotional; Sam took tons of pictures for her, and she was so overwhelmed sometimes that I was just her scribe, just jotting down anything she remembered. We tried to go inside and find Ruth's room, but that wing is maternity now; everything’s different. But, I’m glad we did it. She needed to be there, to feel those things, I think.”_  
  
“Sounds like it.”  
  
_”She says that Ruth is gone. That she can’t feel her spirit anywhere we’ve been. I don’t think Harper expected that. I think she wanted—“_  
  
“Her mom?” you asked.  
  
Justin sighed, “ _Yeah, I think she needs to feel her mom, and she’s gone, but she feels Alan everywhere we go; she’s convinced he’s with us on this trip. I actually think she’s a little bit psychic.”_  
  
“Or crazy…maybe,” you joked.  
  
_”No, I mean, come on, I don’t believe in ghosts and shit, but she definitely feels something. She says Alan’s okay; he’s tagging along behind us. She used to have intuition about him when he was alive, too. It’s not like we go out to eat and she asks for a table for four or anything; she’s just very conscious of his spirit, I guess.”_  
  
“Well, maybe she’s right. I kind of hope she is because I need to talk to you about where I’m going to be for the next few days.”  
  
“ _You’re going somewhere? If it’s Ibiza, I’ll fucking kill you.”_  
  
You laughed, “God, no. I’m going to New York to help Daniel pack up his place and get it ready to put on the market.”  
  
“ _Wait. What are you talking about?_ ”  
  
“I spent the day with him; he’s here, of course; he always is. Wait, let me back up. You know, I told you that Gabe’s resigning and moving back to the city, and well, Daniel’s kind of the cog in the wheel; he’s kind of stuck in a fog or something—“  
  
Justin’s discomfort began to weave into his voice, “ _Then let Gabe help him. That’s what boyfriends are for.”_  
  
“He needs a different kind of help…getting over this. I offered to go with him tomorrow and help him out.”  
  
“ _Well, that’s nice of you, but I don’t see why it needs to be you._ ”  
  
“Why not me? He and I, we kind of have some shit in common, you know?”  
  
“ _Just because I fucked him a few times does not give you two something in common, Brian._ ”  
  
“I don’t mean that. I mean, we both experienced a similar thing, okay?”  
  
“ _Well, don’t you think that we should be there? Me, Harper and Sam? We’re his friends. Can’t this wait?”_  
  
……  
  
“Honestly, no, I don’t think it can.”  
  
…..  
  
…..  
  
The air around you began to feel frozen. You cracked the ice with your voice, “Hello?”  
  
…..  
  
And again, “Justin?”  
  
……  
  
He hung up on you.  
  
You threw your phone on the bed and felt an anger rising up in you that you hadn’t felt in quite a while. It was so strong, so present, that it actually frightened you. You had an overwhelming urge to smash everything within your reach. And then smash it again. And then your phone was lighting up and there was a text on the screen from Justin:  
  
_’I’m not okay with this.’_  
  
……  
  
You wanted to run. Run all the way from your big, big house all the way to Babylon or maybe even further than that. Maybe to the Atlantic Ocean and just hurl yourself completely naked at the biggest, coldest, cruelest wave you could find. You stared at the words until they became abstract letters floating in space, until they meant nothing to you, and then you responded with a lie via text:  
  
‘I don’t care.’  
  
……  
  
_’Obviously. You’re just pissed at me for leaving you for a few days.’_  
  
The anger kept coming, crashing and crashing and crashing against your soul, screaming in your face, trying, like it always does, to intimidate your emotions. And that made you even madder:  
  
‘If that’s what u really think about me, f u.’  
  
Again, you threw the phone down, and then went into your closet, grabbed your suitcase, threw it on the bed and started packing. The next response came about ten minutes later:  
  
_’That’s not what I think, okay?’_  
  
You took a picture of your almost-packed suitcase and sent it to him along with:  
  
‘I need to do this. guess I’ll c u when I get back.’  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You went online and checked flight times for the next day, bought your ticket, texted Daniel the info so he could buy his.  
  
…..  
  
The phone rang again at ten p.m. It was Justin. You answered it on the first ring like the phone was the one attacking you, “What?”  
  
“ _I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”_  
  
“Okay…thanks.”  
  
_”But I’m still not okay with this. I don’t think it’s a safe thing for you to do._ ”  
  
“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“ _I’m trying to get okay with it because you’re obviously going.”_  
  
“I am.”  
  
_”It’s just; Daniel’s my friend. I feel like I should be doing this.”_  
  
“You’re helping the people you can help. Daniel’s been practically living at Gabe’s for months, Justin. You never gave a shit or tried to reach out to him. What’s the big fucking deal?”  
  
_”I do give a shit; I just didn’t know what to do.”_  
  
“Okay, well I think I do. Like you said, not trying to be a hero, it’s just I think I can help him, and it might even help me in the process—“  
  
_”Brian, Alan was beaten to death like only six months ago. This isn’t some buried thing with Daniel. It just happened at his own fucking house.”_  
  
“Everyone grieves in their own time, Justin. Maybe since he’s a shrink, it happens faster; fuck, I don’t know. It doesn’t take everyone ten years to get over shit. Everybody’s different.”  
  
And then the line went quiet, and you could hear Justin breathing…and then not breathing. You clarified, “I didn’t mean you; I mean me…taking ten years.” And still there was silence on the line. “Justin, I don’t mean you, really. Don’t go silent on me.”  
  
……  
  
“ _You say that, that everyone grieves in their own time, but some people…never…grieve…at all,_ ” he said _._  
  
“No, I don’t think so. Everybody grieves.”  
  
……  
  
……  
  
“ _My Dad never grieved. I mean, everybody thought I was going to die or be a vegetable, and still, he didn’t care._   _He almost lost his son."_  
  
……  
  
……  
  
……  
  
You took the phone from your ear, stared at the screen, at the time ticking by, and then put it back again. You felt so heavy after Justin said that, so heavy with hurt, “Look, he’s grieving now. That’s why he calls you all the time even when you won’t call him back. He’s just very, very late to the party, I guess.”  
  
“ _Well, sometimes when you come too late to a party, the party’s over.”_ And that was the moment you realized why he was on this quest for Ruth with Harper, how he was trying to fix someone else because he couldn’t figure out how to fix himself; it hurt to think he was going through this all alone, “I wish I was with you right now,” you said, “I really do.”  
  
“ _Me, too.”_  
  
“I never meant to upset you like this with this trip; I would never do that to you.”  
  
“ _I know._ ”  
  
……  
  
_”Brian, what if everybody gets past this stuff and I never do?”_  
  
“Is that what you’re worried about? Being left behind?”  
  
“ _Kind of._ ”  
  
“Justin, listen to me. Are you listening?”  
  
_”Yes, of course.”_  
  
“Regardless of how you feel tonight or six months from now, it’s okay. This is not a race. You don’t need to beat the clock on this.”  
  
“ _You say that—“_  
  
“I say it because it’s true. Everyone takes their own path in their own time.”

************

 **BRIAN'S POV**  
_we may lose, we may win,  
though we may never be here again_  
  
Going back to New York wasn't easy-not that you thought it would be. Daniel's place felt sterile just like before, only more so now because most of his personal things had spent the last few months migrating to Gabe's. Daniel's mood was somber though he was clearly appreciative for the company. The two of you split up shortly after arriving; Daniel to his bedroom to box up the rest of his clothes while you were taxed with taking down all the artwork, most of it Justin's.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want these paintings?" Dan had asked, and you firmly shook your head and explained, "Uh, no. Justin would go off the deep end if I brought these paintings home. If they're with you, that's where he wants them to be." Quietly, you boxed each one and then had to ponder how to label them. A few of them were titled, signed and dated on the back, but many bore only a date and 'JT.' You ended up putting the size, the main attributes like 'blue and gold abstract,' and the date on each one. When you were done, you stared at the seven or so stacked boxes in front of you, picked up a marker and wrote 'Justin Taylor, artist' on the front of each one. Next, Daniel asked you to pack up the studio. You smiled and obliged him, your hand resting on his shoulder as he stood in the doorway of the room. He couldn't bear to step inside he told you, and you believed him because he looked as if he might shatter. "It's okay; don't worry about it," you said, "I don't mind at all. Go back to what you were doing."  
  
As you surveyed the dusty supplies, easels and random oddities left behind, it was clear to you that most of it belonged to Harper. You put together cardboard boxes of different sizes, lined them up on the floor and tried to bring order to what a heartbroken artist leaves behind in a situation like this. Pieces of half-finished projects and random photographs went in one box, supplies of every variety imaginable went in another, and personal items in the last. You found all sorts of things during the task, including notes that Harper and Justin had left for one another when their schedules were conflicting. One from Harper to Justin made you laugh, _'J--Amelia sits at your desk and pretends she's you when you're not here. I try to film her but she won't do it on camera, lol. --H'_ And then you found a piece of black chalk that clearly belonged to Justin; you could tell because of the shape, the clear indentation of the callous on his finger.  
  
The entire process seemed to be going fairly smoothly for both you and the Doc until you realized he wasn't upstairs with you anymore. You could hear what sounded like sobbing through a vent in the studio. You made your way downstairs and found Daniel sitting on the floor in his office, his arms around his bent knees, his face buried in the gap. There were piles of books on the floor next to a half-filled box. You found a spot and sat down as well, the corner of a hefty textbook jabbing your thigh in the process.  
  
"Dan," you said softly, and then you repeated yourself with a little more courage, "Dan, tell me what's wrong." He didn't look up at you, but rather shook his head and kept his face hidden. You scanned the room for a box of tissues and nudged his arm with it, "It's okay. You can tell me."  
  
He looked up. "The bookmarks," he choked out. You didn't understand what he meant but he continued, "They're in everything, so many of these, I can't take them out." That was when you noticed that about a third of the books had torn slips of paper sticking out. "He did this, Alan did. He was always reading in here...trying to solve his own problems." You picked up a book and opened it to the marked page: an explanation of the effects of long term electro-shock therapy. "Don't take it out," Dan said, sounding frantic, "Don't."  
  
"I won't," you reassured him. "Just leave them in, Dan. There's no harm in that."  
  
"I'm supposed to be putting this behind me," he said with disappointment tingeing his voice.  
  
"Wanna know something?" you asked him.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"After Justin got hurt, I didn't change the sheets until he woke up from his coma. I threw blankets and shit on top of my bed if I had some trick over or something. Those sheets...they smelled like him, and I...was afraid...they never would again." Daniel looked up at you, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve as you continued, "And these bookmarks are nothing, Dan. Nothing. I had this white silk scarf on the night Justin was bashed, and in some type of cruel fashion-curse, I put it around his neck when I told him goodbye. A minute later he was bleeding out on the cement. I kept that fucking thing, crusty and stained with his blood _around my neck_ for weeks. It's gone now; I've thrown it away, but sometimes I still feel it around my neck like a phantom or something."  
  
"You've been in love with Justin for a really long time, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," you sighed, "It feels like an eternity when I think about shit like that."  
  
"I want closure, Brian, but I feel like it gets off on eluding me."  
  
You shifted your legs and tried to get comfortable again in the small space, "You know, I had the same conversation with Justin last night. Maybe you and he are sort of alike? It's like you both think this process is a race or something. That there's a winner at the end?"  
  
"'Physician, heal thyself;' haven't you ever heard that?" Daniel asked.  
  
"Of course, I have, but it doesn't mean that it's an instant download or an app on your phone or something."  
  
The doctor seemed distracted after that and had scooted over to his desk, a drawer opened and its contents pilfered. "Tell me again what you said said..about that scarf?"  
  
"That I kept, that I wore it?" you asked.  
  
Daniel kept digging and digging in that jam-packed drawer, "No, you said it was white, didn't you?"  
  
"Yeah, white silk--"  
  
"Found it," Dan said as he pulled a brochure out of a very full folder, sending about half of the contents all over the floor. "Is this it?" he asked you as he held up what must've been a flyer from Justin's first art show. You took the paper from him and stared down at a picture of a painting destroyed months ago--destroyed, and yet, still taking up space in your house and in your mind.  
  
"Yeah, this is it," you admitted.  
  
"I tend to keep things like this; I mean, I wanted to buy it--" Daniel confessed.  
  
"But you were too late," you added.  
  
He sighed, "Timing is everything."  
  
"I feel guilty just looking at a picture of this painting," you confessed, "Justin would shred this."  
  
You handed it back to Daniel for safekeeping as he spoke, "You know, I didn't really understand it until now. I mean, I didn't understand why Justin was so cagey about it and denied that there was anything violent about it, but now, I sort of get why he said that to me."  
  
You were confused, "Get what?"  
  
Dan explained, pointing to the white stripe in the painting, "Maybe Justin doesn't know what it's about because it isn't his point of view. Maybe it's _your_ point of view, Brian."  
  
"He was hit, not me."  
  
"Right, but you just said that you gave him that scarf about a minute before he was hit. Maybe Justin was painting what he thought you saw seconds later...blood and the scarf on the ground."  
  
"That doesn't make any sense," you argued. "If it's my point of view, yeah, I saw those things but I saw _him_."  
  
Daniel kept turning the brochure and staring at the picture of the painting, "Hmm, perhaps he either intended for that scarf to represent him or he left himself out on purpose because he doesn't think you saw him at all or maybe--"  
  
You cut him off, "Because he doesn't think that I see him now?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"How can I not 'see' him? I don't even get that."  
  
Dan tried again, "Maybe he didn't feel like you see him as he sees himself? I'm not sure."  
  
You felt a thickening sensation forming in your mouth as you thought about the painting and Justin's anger about finding it in your possession. "Maybe it's even more insidious than that," you suggested, "Maybe he thinks that he was lying on the cement bleeding out, and I was more concerned about myself. Maybe that's why he got so pissed when he saw the painting in my home office. He though it represented a lack of growth on my part?"  
  
"Or just the opposite," Dan postulated, "Maybe hanging that painting in your home represented your ability to move forward, to face what happened, to be okay with facing it every single day."  
  
"Because I wasn't afraid of it anymore?"  
  
"Well, who really knows? I mean, it's all conjecture; art is very subjective for everyone, but it's something to think about. A fear of change, especially in the people we love and rely on, can be terrifying to most people, but when you take someone like Justin who was literally struck down on the cusp of adulthood, that fear of losing complete control of your world can paralyze people. Alan was that way, too, so much so that he basically hosted what were almost multiple personalities to keep his relationships with those he valued exactly as he remembered them."  
  
You needed some air. "Will you be okay if I go smoke for a few--?" you asked Daniel as you pointed toward the front door.  
  
"Of course," he replied, "Take your time." And then he stopped you, his hand on your leg, "But keep this flyer. It belongs with you. I don't need it anymore." You took it, folded it in half and tucked it away in the pocket of your jeans.  
  
************  
**JONATHON MASSEY'S POV**  
_Jesus, take the wheel_  
  
Life since Alan's death hadn't been easy for you. You went from feeling like an outsider around Daniel and his art groupies to actually being one when everyone went away. At first, you blamed yourself for taking Daniel's friendship for granted all these years, for thinking that he would always need you to talk to if nothing else. Never in a million years did you think that the guy would meet somebody at a fucking funeral, fall in love, and for all practical purposes, move away.  
  
When you spend your livelihood analyzing other people's problems, you often leave little time or inclination to analyze your own. Not only had you lost Daniel, but you and Richard had parted ways that day as well. Burying a guy you barely knew meant saying goodbye to everyone and made your lack of a life glaringly apparent. And because unexpected losses can lead to unexpected coping strategies, you found yourself texting Richard around the start of summer when Daniel had decided he'd rather be in Pittsburgh than New York. You never expected Richard to answer your texts as they were mostly benign pleasantries inquiring about his well being that made it clear that no response was expected. But respond he did.  
  
You met him for coffee in mid June. It was too hot for coffee that day and ultimately too hot for clothing as well because the two of you ended up fucking back at your place. For all the awkwardness over coffee, being in bed with him felt comfortable; you could tell he really wanted a connection to something, and you felt like you were the portal to whatever it was. You didn't know what to say when it was over; you just watched Richard get dressed in his hideous cargo shorts and sandals. He announced that he'd let himself out, and with zero emotion in his voice, offered to meet your for 'coffee' again next week. Same time; same place. You said, "Okay," the way you tell a mechanic who's just explained what's wrong with your car to go ahead and fix it--pretending you understand.  
  
And so the ritual began and though the initial meeting place changed from time to time, the two of you sat and talked every week like nothing untoward had ever happened between you and never would. He started buying your coffee or muffin or whatever because, "You have to buy the condoms. That's not something I can do." You didn't know what this thing you had with him was; you just knew it felt like a forbidden form of tricking. Maybe that's why you kept doing it or maybe you were just lonely.  
  
You'd often go for a walk after Richard left those afternoons because you felt sort of queasy and disgusted with yourself if you stayed in your townhome. Those walks eventually led to Daniel's empty home where you'd sit on the brick steps in front of his door and smoke exactly one cigarette. Sometime in early August when you'd been sitting there for about ten minutes, you saw an older man encumbered with tons of plastic bags coming toward you. There was something familiar about him, and he walked past you the first time without saying anything, but when he turned around at the corner and started coming back, he must've found his courage. "You're that other doctor, aren't you?" the disheveled man asked.  
  
Your eyes were squinting in the afternoon sun, so you shielded them with your hands, "Excuse me?"  
  
The man spoke again; his plastic bags clattering as he dropped them on the ground; you realized they were filled with bottles and cans, "The doctor that lived here; you're his friend."  
  
"Do I know you?"  
  
The man continued as if he wasn't listening to your half of the conversation anyway, "Do you live here now?"  
  
"No," and then it dawned on you and your nose, "Are you Stitch?"  
  
"Yeah." His eyes kept shifting all over the place. "Got any bottles or cans? That bottle of water there; can I have that?"  
  
You looked down at the plastic bottle next to you, "I'm not done yet, but when I am, you can have it." He sat down on a step to wait.  
  
At that first meeting, you learned that Stitch's community, Alan's family, had fallen apart after the funeral. Some of his residents didn't want to go back underground having come upstairs again. Lewis, who'd been charged with protecting the tunnel in their absence hadn't done a very good job. Things were stolen that day, and Lewis wasn't capable of running the routes that Alan ran and getting all the supplies they needed. Stitch had been able to keep his room, but that was about it. He didn't much like the new 'family' that had moved in with him, so he quit worrying about an entire group of people and began 'canning' to make money to provide for himself. Every night, he'd head to the recycling center and deposit the days collection. Sometimes they were so backed up with other people depositing recyclables that he ended up sleeping there. You could never leave your bags alone, he explained, or all of your hard work would be stolen. You asked him how much that day's enormous haul on the sidewalk in front of you would bring and he told you, "Fifteen or twenty dollars." You tried to give him some cash, and he ignored your hand asking instead where 'the other doctor' was. "He spends most of his time in Pittsburgh right now," you said.  
  
"With Justin?" Stitch asked.  
  
You laughed, "Uh no, with Gabe. You remember him?"  
  
"Zeek's brother," Stitch said matter-of-factly.  
  
"They're a couple," you said, and then you added, "And I don't think he likes to come back here very often; you know...because...."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Stitch said, "That's sort of why I made this my route," and then he pointed to the bushes--less than three feet away from you-where Alan was murdered, "I kind of say 'hi' to him every day."  
  
"Do you still paint?" you asked him, and Stitch shook his head and replied, "Nah. No fun without Al. He had so many ideas. Now, painting just makes me sad."  
  
......  
  
And so your routine continued, you sat on Daniel's steps once a week accompanied by a bag of any bottles or cans you'd accumulated that week, and Stitch would come by nearly every time. The two of you exchanged pleasantries and recyclables and sometimes he bummed a cigarette and then you went back home feeling somehow cleansed of the sin you'd committed earlier that day. On one particular September afternoon, you were enjoying the cooling weather and babysitting your plastic bottles when the door to Daniel's home opened behind you and scared the fuck out of you. You turned around expecting to see Dan and were surprised instead to see a six foot tall guy digging in the pocket of his jeans. Your bag of bottles rattled down the steps as you stood and said, "Brian?"  
  
He came outside to join you, "Jon? What's up?"  
  
"What are you doing here?" you asked him.  
  
With a cigarette pursed between his lips, Brian explained while pointing inside the place, "Helping the doc pack some shit up and get this place on the market."  
  
Your stomach dropped, "He's selling?"  
  
Brian seemed a bit taken aback by your reaction, "Uh, yeah...maybe you should talk to Dan? He's here."  
  
************  
_everybody knows that the war is over,  
everybody knows that the good guys lost_  
  
Daniel's office looked like the aftermath of an explosion, and the expression on his face when he realized it was you standing in the doorway and not Brian was hard to decode. "Jon, hey. What are you doing here?" he asked.  
  
It took you a second or two "Long story," you said, "I kind of come here once a week to gather my thoughts."  
  
Daniel stepped carefully over open boxes and piles of books until he could get to you and then he gave you an awkward hug. "I've missed you," he said.  
  
Your mind had to tell your arms to encircle his body at first, your emotions having been stuffed away so compactly. "Same here," you responded. He felt thinner than you remembered. As the hug expired, you asked him, "What are you doing? Brian said you're selling this place. You're moving to Pennsylvania?" There was fear of being left behind hidden in your voice.  
  
"Selling? Yes," Dan said, "But so Gabe and I can get a new place together here. He has to come back...his parents are retiring."  
  
He'd done it, you thought; he finally fell for a guy only a few years younger who wasn't a starving artist. You felt guilty for the amount of relief you felt and it fueled a small smile, "So you're not leaving here for good?"  
  
Dan gave you a rather incredulous look, "You thought I'd leave the city? And not even tell you?"  
  
You stuffed your hands in your pockets and shrugged, "I didn't know. You don't really come back here much anymore...and I don't guess I blame you."  
  
He looked like he was about to explain himself to you but the conversation was interrupted by Brian who--with a cigarette still burning in his fingers--had appeared in the hallway, "Hey, Stitch is here. He's asking for you, Jon."  
  
......  
  
Instead of keeping your usual routine of walking back home after these weekly jaunts, you offered to stay and help. You packed up the contents of Daniel's liquor cabinet and went through the kitchen and living room boxing up personal items. Later that night, the three of you went out to dinner, and you divulged what you knew about Stitch's situation, how everything had changed. "Those light boxes I sent?" Brian asked.  
  
"Stolen, I think," you said. "Light's a pretty hot commodity when you live underground."  
  
"I tried to give him cash before he left today," Brian admitted, "But he wouldn't fucking take it. He'd rather cart hundreds of bottles around in a broken grocery cart all day than take a hundred bucks from me."  
  
"He wants to earn his own living," you said.  
  
"Some living," Brian said.  
  
You changed the subject and asked Daniel when he thought he'd start seeing patients again. "After Gabe and I get settled, I guess."  
  
"I'm proud of you for falling for someone your own age," you told Daniel, "Never thought I'd see the day."  
  
"Thank you," Dan said.  
  
Brian huffed and rolled his eyes at you, "Speaking of men your own age, how's Father Dick?"  
  
"We broke up," you reminded both of your dinner companions.  
  
Brian leaned forward and stared you down, asking, “So?”  
  
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked him.  
  
He smiled, "Because once a week, you're on Daniel's porch in the middle of a workday _smoking_. That does not compute."  
  
Daniel's eyes grew two sizes as he caught on, "Wait? Are you? Oh god, you're not; are you, Jon?"  
  
You'd forgotten how queens don't even need verbs in their sentences to be understood. "So? It's my early day," you tried.  
  
"You don't have early days, Massey," Brian said, "You're a workaholic, like me. The only reason I leave work on time is because I have prime blond ass waiting for me every day."  
  
"And how is Justin?" you asked.  
  
"Don't change the subject. You're fucking Richard again, aren't you?" Brian asked.  
  
You sighed and signaled the waiter for the check, "No comment."  
  
Daniel crossed his arms, "What are you doing to him, Jon? I think he loved you."  
  
"And he _left_ me, if anyone's interested in the facts of the situation." You wrestled the check from Brian and slapped your credit card down with conviction. "You both need to calm down; it's all he wants, trust me. We chat beforehand, have a nice time at my place, and then he just gets up and leaves. I don't get it, but I'm not gonna fuck with it."  
  
Brian slapped you on the shoulder, "I like it, Doc. It's carnal...and very macho."  
  
Daniel took a different approach, "I feel so bad for him."  
  
"Why?" you demanded, "I'm not hurting him." (You'd had just about enough of this.)  
  
"Because he's just so gay," Daniel explained, "And he's had to hide his whole life. Clearly, these indiscretions are a type of a physical confession for him. Maybe it's nice what you're doing for him, maybe it's merciful."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Dan. 'Merciful' is exactly what I was going for." The three of you began to exit the restaurant and Brian turned on a dime and stopped both of you, "Wait. Is the wardrobe situation better or worse?"  
  
"No name polo shirts, cargo shorts, and sandals," you revealed.  
  
"But it's _September_ ," Brian stressed.  
  
"Bears don't hibernate until the winter," you reminded him.  
  
Brian shifted his eyes as if he was giving what you said deep thought and then he said, "Dan's right. It's a mercy fuck."  
  
"Both of you can go fuck yourselves," you told them, "And the sooner the better."  
  
......  
  
You convinced both Brian and Dan to spend the night at your place that night, instead of Daniel's. It wasn't a hard sell, but it surprised you that Brian went along with it. You knew that you'd get nothing but shit from them all night about Richard, but still, it felt good to be among friends.  
  
************  
**HARPER COLLIN'S POV**  
_if I could walk around I swear I'll leave,  
won't take nothing but a memory  
from the house that built me._  
  
September in Georgia felt little like autumn as you sat in Justin's Jeep outside the house you grew up in. No one appeared to be home, probably at work, you surmised. Sam and Justin had exited the vehicle and were taking a walk; you could still see them at the end of the street before they turned the corner; Sam's camera swinging beneath his arm. You'd asked both of them to leave you alone for awhile. Coming back here felt nothing like you thought it would.  
  
You noticed it the second Justin turned into the neighborhood. You expected the houses of old friends and neighbors to be different colors, but you never expected them to appear so worn down, like everyone who lived inside them just quit caring. There were random shutters and screens missing and every fourth or fifth house was trying to buck the 'gone by the wayside' trend by over-improving with dark brown slatted fences constructed to shield themselves from their low class neighbors. Nothing felt right either. The houses seemed much closer together than you recalled, and even the types of trees seemed somehow different. The landscape that used to be your never-ending playground felt claustrophobic and forgotten.  
  
Your old house, then a pale lime green and now a soft gray, was a two story plus basement with a winding back deck that had to battle the crazy hills and valleys of the terrain. By the time you got to the top of that wooden labyrinth, you were always afraid of falling down and smashing into the hard ground below. Underneath the wooden structure, where you and Alan played together, was always home to copperhead snakes and black widow spiders. It was shaded, though, so it beat getting sunburned in summer. The dirt was hard and sloped up the sides of the cinderblock foundation; you remember carving a kitchen into it so you could play house. From your vantage point in the Jeep, you couldn't see the backyard, only that it was fenced in now. Surely, your favorite swing set was long gone. It was rusted by the time you were six but you loved the way it creaked when you pumped your legs back and forth; it had a language all its own. You swung for so long and so hard that you'd pull the legs right out of the ground at your highest peak causing a hard _thunk_ on each swing back. If Alan swung with you, you had to be sure he was going backward when you were going forward or the set would've come unhinged. The back of your legs was always imprinted with the plastic seat when you were finished so you could never hide your favorite escape. From the back of the house, your memories were kinder: your mom calling you to dinner from the window over the kitchen sink, your dad firing up the lawn mower and ready to tackle that slope or responding to your squeals when you found a hornet's nest beneath the deck. The backyard reminded you of happy times.  
  
Your gaze turned three hundred and sixty degrees back to your old front door, back to the windows of your old room that looked out over the front yard, as your thoughts turned to Alan finding your mother's body in the downstairs bathroom. You can still smell the air full of fear and confusion and helplessness. As you wondered if the current inhabitants knew what happened in that house, you could see straight through to the next street where Sam and Justin were making their way around the block and back to you. You wanted to shake this emptiness before they rounded the corner. You didn't want to tell them that you felt this place was dying just like you sometimes felt you were.  
  
"Tell me what you want me to shoot, okay, babe?" Sam asked you when they returned. "I'm not sure what's important to you here."  
  
"Me either," you said, "It doesn't feel anything like I thought it would." Maybe you could walk this sinking feeling off, you thought, so you indicated that you wanted to walk with them this time so the three of you began another trek as you replied, "Maybe because I was little, everything looked bigger? You think you'd feel safe and sort of homey when you come back to your old house, but I don't feel that way at all. Now, everything looks so plain, so unremarkable...so _conquered._ "  
  
"Well, the world looks bigger when you're only three feet tall," Sam said.  
  
As the three of you made your way, you pointed out houses you remembered, neighbors you knew or feared and found yourself standing in front of the house that was directly behind your childhood home. You looked left, looked right, and then motioned for Sam and Justin to follow you as you walked through their backyard and made it to the creek that separated that house from yours. Sam came and stood beside you, his arm around your waist. You told both he and Justin what you remembered, pointing out that the old makeshift bridge the kids used to cross the creek was gone. "Come here," you said as you began to walk toward the mouth of the creek where it oozed out of a sewer-like tunnel. Sam began to shoot as you spoke, "I had forgotten about this. Alan and I were always so spooked by this tunnel. We were always afraid that someone scary was going to walk out of it and grab us or something. He went from being afraid of these tunnels to living in them. He was so much braver than I ever was." It was almost time for the leaves to start falling, decomposing and creating a mushy mesh for the fall and winter months. "We loved it back here, though," you said, "Because we had access to all of these yards and didn't have to cross streets to get through the whole neighborhood. I hardly remember playing inside our house at all." You looked over at Justin and smiled; he was sitting on a log and sketching. "One summer, Alan and I were running back and forth across this bridge playing a game or something and one of our neighbors saw us and ran out and pulled us back. We were so scared, but he knew there was a nest of baby copperheads under the plywood, and we didn't. He went down and flipped the plank onto the hill, exposing them, and then told us to head for the street and walk back home on the pavement. That happened about two weeks before my mother...."  
  
Sam took a picture of you standing there and no one said a word.  
  
......  
  
That night after the adventure was over and the three of you were back at your nice hotel (Justin had put his foot down after one night in an Econo Lodge), the heavy feelings of hopelessness began to set in. You sat outside on the balcony of your room with a cold bottle of beer in your lap. Justin joined you; Sam was inside downloading his pictures. "Did you accomplish what you wanted to accomplish?" Justin asked you.  
  
You sighed, "I don't know. I guess so."  
  
"If it makes you feel any better, I haven't felt very productive since Alan...you know...either," he admitted to you.  
  
You nodded, "I don't even need to produce anything new. The demand for our initial work after that interview, we're still riding that wave. Every indie-gallery in the city wants us. They want you, too," you told Justin, "But you're gone."  
  
"They still call," he confessed.  
  
"Well, of course they do. Our work sells and the economy is a piece of shit. Sometimes I feel like I'm making bank at the expense of Alan's memory. Sam says he feels that way, too, but we have to eat...."  
  
Justin picked an odd moment to change the subject, "Did you know...Daniel's coming back to the city soon?"  
  
"Huh? What do you mean?"  
  
Justin's eyebrows rose, "Zeek and Gabe, they're moving back to the city to run the restaurant. Gabe and Daniel are going to move in together--"  
  
"Where?" you asked, fearful of the answer.  
  
"Daniel's going to sell his place; they're going to find a new place together."  
  
"How long have you known this?" you asked him.  
  
"Found out two nights ago."  
  
"And you're just now telling me? Sam! Come out here!"  
  
......  
  
Homecomings, you decided, are by their very nature unpredictable.  
.  
************  
**BRIAN’S POV**  
_where the rivers change direction  
across the great divide_  
  
When both you and Justin were back home, things began to pick up speed again. You spoke little of your respective 'vacations' and noticed that he seemed very intent on guaranteeing your well being; there were no arguments about robotic appliances (Justin treated them like they were in-laws to him, allowed to be present and at the most, tolerated) nor long discussions about how to cope with what everyone else was coping with. Yours (his and yours) became a world that revolved around facts, not emotion or fear. He seemed much more centered or perhaps he was just acquiescing to the fact that hopeless feelings surface now and again. At times, he'd acknowledge they were in his head and sometimes went as far as to admit they were in his heart, but he gave them far less credence. Or at least, you thought he did.  
  
Then one day, you wandered innocently into his studio and saw sketches and blue prints instead of paints and canvases. Justin wasn't home at the time. Had he been, you wouldn't have lingered over them as long as you did. That night at dinner, you waited until he'd had a full glass of wine before you asked, "What's all that stuff in your studio? The blueprints and everything?"  
  
He gave you a look of tepid warning, "Why were you in my studio?"  
  
You told him the truth, "Because Maria put one of your paint rags in with my underwear again."  
  
"Maybe you need to buy new underwear," he suggested, "If it passes for a paint rag."  
  
"It was stuck inside those boxer briefs you hate. Reserve your disdain for static cling."  
  
"Fair enough," he said, "I've decided what I'm going to do with that commercial property you gave me."  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"I want to offer my dad a chance to expand his business."  
  
This struck you as odd and very unexpected, "Um, okay. Why?"  
  
"Because it's a conditional offer. I want something from him."  
  
"What?"  
  
He took a deep breath before continuing, "Okay, you know how in that strip mall he's in, how there's an empty space to the right of his store and three empty ones to the left?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I'm going to offer him the space to the right to expand Taylor Electronics as long as he becomes a significant corporate sponsor of the community art space I want to open in the other three spaces."  
  
Your eyebrow escaped its cage, "Are you serious?" (It was a sober question.)  
  
"Absolutely." - a sober answer.  
  
************  
_it's gone away yesterday_  
  
With your sleeves rolled up and the bottle of wine by your side, you sat down next to Justin in his studio and listened as he further explained his idea, "There are a couple of things that really matter to me as an artist," he began.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I want to live and work in a place where I feel creative and artistically motivated and free--"  
  
"You mean New York?" you asked.  
  
"No, no, I mean 'place' in a figurative sense. Just let me get this out, okay?"  
  
"Sure, sorry."  
  
"I mean that I want to feel creative energy within myself and my surroundings, but I want other people to feel it, too. Art matters, Brian. It _matters._ I used to be so cynical, but I've lived it now. I've lived with artists; I've seen what art can do for a completely ignored and impoverished community. Sometimes art mattered more than shelter or food, and definitely more than money. So I want to create a place where the same is true. A place where anyone can come and be involved or affected by art."  
  
"Lofty but inspiring, please continue."  
  
"And I have this space, this space you gave me...and I want to start a new community art space that houses studios for local artists and offers art experiences for people of all ages. I want to have different areas for painting, sculpting, drawing, pottery, photography, graphic art, even graffiti art like spray painting. I want to host art shows featuring local talent, and I want it to be a place where all ages can come to create and appreciate art, new mediums, whatever. I want to have classes and be a resource for art rehabilitation, even private space for art therapy if there's a need. I mean, art is constantly being cut from school curriculums and even PIFA doesn't have enough room for all the artists that want work space, and this property is on the bus route. And I don't want to have to charge people an arm and a leg; I want corporate sponsors." He stopped and looked at you, "I can't tell if you think this is a good idea or an incredibly stupid one."  
  
"I think it's pretty cool, pretty ambitious, but pretty cool." You meant it when you said it, realizing that you'd been wrong all along; Justin's goal was never to conquer the art world; he was trying to find a way to be a more meaningful part of it. You were reminded of something he said to you months earlier, _'The genesis of art is not the hope of a sale.'_  
  
"Are you being honest?" he asked, and you responded, "Am I ever not honest?"  
  
He smiled, "No, you aren't."  
  
"When did you come up with this?" you asked feeling like you were playing catch up with him, like you needed to hurry and get on the same page.  
  
"In Georgia," he admitted.  
  
"On your trip?"  
  
"Yeah. Every one of us who's been hurt, who's been broken; art was always there. Some of us produce, some collect, some covet, some analyze, some only struggle--"  
  
"Some employ gnomes," you added.  
  
"Some _sell out_ ," he said, revising your appraisal and then he swallowed and said, "And some...know how...to capitalize on art." He looked away after that, over his shoulder like the lamp behind him was speaking to him.  
  
You sat there as the capitalist and stared down at your wine glass, your fingers skating around the rim. For so long, you'd felt shut out of this part of Justin's psyche, and now, he was letting you come in and look around. You were serious when you spoke, "You want my input on this process or were you going to do this all by yourself?"  
  
He looked a little defensive, "I wanted to have it more fleshed out before I showed you. That's all. Please, say whatever you want...just don't say you totally hate it."  
  
"I think it's a great idea, and there are--because of what I do for a living--about a hundred ideas in my head right now."  
  
"Give me _one_ ," he stressed.  
  
"Okay...," you tried to think how to phrase it, "...I think you have two different projects here. Building this art space and dealing with your dad. You don't need him to do this; the space is yours, so I think you should tackle your dad first and find out how much space you'll actually be renovating."  
  
Justin's shoulders sagged a bit as he leaned on the table, "That's the part I'm uncomfortable with. Can I have a different idea?"  
  
You humored him because you didn't want him to get stuck in his tracks. "Okay," you tried again, "Now, I'm sort of allergic to this concept, but maybe you should set it up as a non-profit; there are all sorts of rules about revenue and shit but Ted can help you, and that way, people can donate to it tax free."  
  
"Keep going," he urged you, "Let's just brainstorm a little."  
  
Over the next hour, you went over the mechanical blue prints with him explaining how the renovations you had to do on Babylon and Kinnetik had taught you way more than you ever wanted to know about plumbing and running electricity. You pointed out things like, "Look where the bathrooms are in these plans. See how they're always back to back? You need to keep all those sinks and the washer and dryer you want on the unused wall near the plumbing." He began to update his personal sketches as you spoke. "If you end up with all this space to renovate, you can always have space for kids birthday parties, summer camps or even those Wine and Paint nights that the soccer moms have around here."  
  
"You think my dad's going to relocate rather than have his business next to mine?" Justin asked, the question clearly weighing on him.  
  
"I'm not sure. All I can tell you is that there is a ton of cheap and empty commercial retail space in Pittsburgh, and he might be able to find a better deal--"  
  
"Okay," he sighed, interrupting you, "That's true."  
  
You finished your sentence, "I was going to say 'on paper' he'll find a better deal, but it'll only be better on paper."  
  
"That's a sweet thing to say."  
  
"Well, take it from someone who often feels like a stranger with his own son. You don't get these opportunities every day."  
  
Justin blinked a few times and tapped his pen on the table as if it was a signal for his emotions to get back in check, "Well, the way I see it, my dad either takes this offer or he relocates. I either need three consecutive units or five. From that information I found in your desk, he wants to expand, and if he doesn't want to be a corporate sponsor, well, I mean, you're paying for Molly's education; you paid for mine; what the fuck else does he have to invest in?"  
  
"Step-children?" you wondered aloud just to see if it was something he'd thought about. It was something Jennifer had alluded to once in a cryptic conversation. You could think of little else besides clearing the hell out of this path for Justin, shining it up for his well-deserving feet.  
  
"There's two, I think. Molly told me."  
  
"How old?"  
  
"I think the oldest one is in junior high. Molly thinks he's gay, too."  
  
"Oh, Jesus. God help that kid."  
  
Justin stood up and faced you so you pushed yourself up off the table, too. He had such an earnest look on his face when he asked you, "Do you think that's why he's been calling me...maybe?"  
  
You raised your eyebrows, "Who knows, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was the case. Times have changed since...you...."  
  
"Yeah," he said quietly, his eyes moving back to his table full of future plans.  
  
"Okay, so, anyway, what you said about what else he's got to invest in...that's exactly how I'd present it to him if it were me," you explained.  
  
You spent another hour with him looking over the blue prints and explaining how to get bids for the work, etc. After the bottle of wine was long gone, you watched as he collated his notes, his sketches, and then rolled up the blue prints. "I need to see if Ted has time for me tomorrow," Justin said, picking up his phone. You took it from him and sat it on top of the pile, "He has time."  
  
"Well, we should check," he suggested again.  
  
"He works for me. He has time."  
  
......  
  
When you left for work the following morning, you left behind a check from Kinnetik for fifty thousand dollars on your pillow. In the memo line, you wrote, _corp. sponsor - founder's level._ By the time you got home from work that night, you had soft commitments from three other long time clients always looking for a benevolent cause for good publicity.  
  
The sponsor that would bring Justin's project to the quarter million dollar mark would come in time and bear more than a check.  
  
************  
_everybody knows that it's now or never,  
everybody knows that it's me or you_  
  
And so it was... that on a bitter cold Friday afternoon in November of 2011, you stood in empty commercial retail space, waiting and toying with random coils of wire as they spilled out of the ceiling. You were dressed for work having taken a half day at Kinnetik, and your overcoat, scarf, and gloves weren’t helping that much in the drafty room. But the cold was really the least of your worries....  
  
What was happening that very day was something that you feared would never happen for Justin in this new life. You worried since the day he returned about his ability to find his footing here, to plant something that grew deep roots. You knew it wasn't easy for him to just come back and meld right into your life and your livelihoods. You knew that you could make him happy at home, but that happiness only went part of the way. He had to take the next steps himself; he had to identify them and then want to take them.  
  
You drove together to Taylor Electronics that day in his car; you drove for him because he was clearly nervous. You watched from the car as Justin walked into his dad's store, a leather messenger bag slung around his body. You waited until you couldn't see him anymore and then walked into an empty unit to pace. You paced and waited, waited and paced. You hadn't thought to bring a cup of coffee with you; the lunch you and Justin had prior to arriving was sitting like a lead ball in your stomach. Every time the bell on Craig's door rang, you looked up hoping to see blond hair and an expression of at least contentment. You checked your phone a million times, tried to play some stupid game. At almost the one hour mark, you heard the bell again, and then you saw blond hair walking stridently toward the car. You bolted out of that unit and unlocked the car for him from several feet away. He smiled at you when he saw you coming but you could read nothing into it before he disappeared inside the vehicle. Your heart was pounding when you put your hand on the car door. You made yourself take a deep, bitterly cold breath in an attempt to calm down. The air inside the car was thick and still; you shot Justin a quick glance but he was looking straight ahead so you started the car. "You ready to leave?" you asked because you honestly couldn't tell.  
  
"Yeah, let's go," he said with a weird calm in his voice. He removed his bag and sat it on the floor between his feet and put on his seatbelt. It wasn't until you hit the interstate headed home that he finally said, "Molly was basically right."  
  
You didn't know what to say so you just reached over and took his hand and wrapped your gloved fingers around it. You squeezed, and he turned away and started staring out his window. You passed the next five minutes in silence, slowly realizing that he was not okay, not at all. Part of you wanted to pull off the highway right then and there, but you kept driving thinking that where he really needed to be was home.  
  
......  
  
The two of you sat on a couch in your home theater room. "It was nothing like I thought it would be," he admitted wearing a mixture of relief, anger, grief, and incredulity.  
  
"Is that good or bad?" you asked, "I can't tell." You rested your hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I don't even know where to start," Justin admitted sounding a bit defeated.  
  
"Start anywhere," you suggested, "You said Molly was right?"  
  
"He's not even the same man anymore," he said ignoring your question. "They tell you that people don't change, but that's bullshit. They do."  
  
"How has he changed?" you asked a bit fearful of the answer.  
  
"He was calling me because he wanted to reconcile with me. He thought that's why I was there."  
  
"Well, it sort of was."  
  
"He wanted to or rather 'wants to' because he's seen the error of his ways, mainly that he blamed himself for me turning out the way I did."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"He knows now that it's not his fault that I'm gay. He saw my interview on _CNN_ ; I guess he realized that I grew up, got married _to a man_ and yet, the Rapture never came and left me behind or something."  
  
"How enlightened of him."  
  
Justin sighed in an exasperated way and sunk his face into his hands for a moment before resurfacing to say, "You see, he's got a thirteen year old step-son named Trevor or Travis or something, and he, the kid, is...well...not interested in being a boy." (You felt a pocket of your mind burst open at that moment.) "And after seeing my interview, he realized that maybe I could help him with this. He and his wife are clueless; they don't know what to do. The only thing he knows for sure is that kids are born this way; he gets that now. The odds of him having two deviant sons are infinitesimal, I guess."  
  
Your eyes felt like they were growing too big for their sockets. "Did you even get to the property issue? "  
  
"Yeah, I'm getting there. So, I told him that there's the Gay and Lesbian Center in Pittsburgh with tons of resources and groups like PFLAG, and if I were him, I'd start there. I think he wants me to talk to this kid, but I don't want to."  
  
"Yeah, the Gay Messiah treatment is fucking annoying."  
  
"So then, I got a little more upset than I wanted to, and I told him that our relationship, if we're actually going to have one now, needs to start way, way back from this point. That I'm glad he wants to help his step-son, but I'm his real son and deserve an apology for the way he treated me, making me feel like he wanted me dead before he wanted me gay, like I deserved what happened to me," and then Justin turned and faced you, "That _we_ deserved what happened to us, you know? I mean, fuck, he physically hurt you, twice, Brian."  
  
"Well, he fucked with me; I fucked with him. We're pretty even now." Your heart tried to escape your chest and envelope him, but you forced yourself to stay calm and composed, to not turn this into something about you. "You're incredibly brave," you said, "I hope you know that."  
  
"So then, he admitted he was an ass, but that he only hurt me out of ignorance. I told him there's was a lot more than ignorance going on. That he was cruel and selfish, and that it took a long time for me to overcome the damage he did to me."  
  
"Good for you."  
  
"I had this overwhelming urge to punish him, Brian. It was a horrible feeling. And then I told him about my plans for the space, and that he had a week to decide if he wants to expand into the extra space or relocate the business. He was more than a little shocked."  
  
"What did he say?"  
  
"He said he doesn't have enough money to be a corporate sponsor, and he wouldn't want to pledge that to me if he couldn't deliver."  
  
"Stores like his have taken a beating since 2008. I'm not surprised by that."  
  
"He doesn't want to expand anymore, and he would've moved the store much earlier if you weren't his landlord. He's terrified of you, Brian."  
  
You laughed, "Good."  
  
"I told him he was dealing with me now, not you, and if he wants out of his lease, he can go. He'll give me his answer in a week, but I'm ninety percent sure he's going to go."  
  
"Well, your dad got exactly what he wanted, didn't he?" you asked.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"He wanted a businessman for a son and he got one; sometimes people should be careful what they wish for."  
  
Justin gave you a wary look, "You're so cold and calculating sometimes."  
  
You remedied that with, "Well, I'm proud of you, Justin. Beyond proud, really. I mean...I'm proud to be married to you."  
  
He smiled at you in such an unguarded way that it gave you chills and then he said, "If you and I weren't how we are now, I could've never done this, Brian."  
  
"If you're going to get emotional on me, could you at least put your hand in my pants first?" you asked him.  
  
"No," he said rather emphatically. "You need to feel this; this is what having a good relationship feels like." And then he laughed and leaned against you, his fingers working on your shirt buttons, "Not every good feeling needs to end with an ejaculation, Brian. You need to grasp that concept."  
  
Seriously? How can he scold you like that and expect you not to come?  
  
_Twat._  
  
************  
_with those holiday greetings,  
and gay happy meetings  
when friends come to call_  
  
_December 2011_  
  
Christmases in years past weren't exactly memory makers for you save the anonymous back-to-back blow jobs and then the few hours you'd get to spend spoiling Gus to death. But that December, things were different. You and Justin hosted a Christmas party at your home that brought everyone together, a mix of your family in Canada, Pittsburgh (friends and key employees), and New York. Naturally, chaos ensued. Gabe nearly peed on himself when you offered to pay him to cook a kick ass Christmas dinner since Roger was on vacation. He refused your money, and then basically moved into your kitchen three days before Christmas. Oddly enough, he got along better with the refrigerator than you did which you considered unnecessary bravado. Once you caught him singing to a spatula while watching your microwave count down from ten to one. When Jennifer arrived with her pecan pie in tow, you thought you'd have to intervene because Gabe had made one as well and was attempting to freeze hers, but Jennifer knew Gabe well enough and figured out a way to sweet talk him into having two of them, “It’s Justin’s favorite.” JR faced an uphill battle with Amelia for attention; Zeek (decked out in his "All I want for Christmas is a ho, ho, ho" shirt) asked you twelve times if you invited the pool boy and when you explained, that no, you hadn't, since it was December, Zeek asked you, "Well, how serious is that blonde lady and her dyke girlfriend?" "Do you mean Lindsay, the mother of my child?" you asked him, "The woman wearing a wedding ring?"  
  
"Aw, shit, man. Are you serious?"  
  
"Yes, and I think you should try to fuck someone who's not in some way related to me."  
  
"This party blows, Boss Man," he promptly declared.  
  
"Well, you know where the door is," you told him, "You probably installed it."  
  
Harper and Lindsay hit it off right away, soon lost in a project that involved turning your kitchen table into a gigantic Elmer's glue and glitter ornament-making extravaganza. Your favorite part of that interaction was watching Emmett out create them at every turn. But even that had its upside because as Emmett made yet another reindeer out of popsicle sticks, Lindsay got a real chance to talk with Harper about motherhood and art, two things they had in common. Later in the day, Rube roped Emmett and Sam into a snowman building contest, and both men were too naive to say no. Rube quietly recruited Gus to help him because building an ordinary snowman and then carefully chiseling the exterior snow to make it look like the entire creature was made of Legos was no easy feat. Separated by the giant fir trees in your backyard, Sam and Emmett each worked alone. Sam created a snow replica of Beaker from The Muppets complete with strips of carrots a top his head which he stole from Gabe’s vegetable prep area. Emmett’s concept worked wonderfully at first; he dyed giant snowballs the colors of the rainbow with food coloring. The problem began when he began to stack them and they started to mix together turning a rainbow snowman into something sort of brown and gross. His choice of a butt plug for the nose turned out to be rather devastating choice design wise by the end of the three hour competition. Justin was slated to judge the competition as he’d been considered the most impartial. Before he made his rounds, you ran to Emmett’s snowman and moved the butt plug to the area it was designed for. Of course, Rube and Gus won the competition; their structure was mesmerizing. Sam was a good sport about it; Emmett not so much. Upon Justin announcing the winner, Gus came up to you in front of everyone and said, “Dad, the first place prize is three hundred dollars…each.”  
  
You gave your scheming son a rather incredulous look, “Is that so?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gus said all satisfied with himself.  
  
“Well, you must think that money grows on trees, so why don’t you go find some? We’ve practically got a forest back here.” You pointed to the foliage in your backyard as you teased him.  
  
“Dad, c’mon,” he tried again.  
  
“I found twenty-three dollars in these jeans this morning,” you offered, “You can have that.” When Gus looked disappointed in that gesture, you added, “Or not.”  
  
Clearly feeling a bit embarrassed in front of everyone, Gus finally held his hand out, “Fine, I’ll take it.”  
  
************  
_oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays_  
  
Aside from sabotaging snowman and keeping the rouse of a real Santa Claus alive, your biggest challenge was with Gus. He arrived with his mothers and sister about three days before Christmas, and about five hours after entering your world again, caught you kissing Justin in the kitchen...with your hand wandering over his ass. You had your back to the doorway, but apparently Justin saw Gus and slowly moved your hand back up to his lower back. You knew immediately that something wasn't right and turned around to see Gus walking away in at a rather brisk pace. You chastised Justin, "You don't have to do that. We're married. I can kiss you whenever I want."  
  
"It wasn't exactly the kissing; it was the groping," he pointed out.  
  
"Well, I can grope you whenever I want. Why the hell else would I marry you?"  
  
"You need to talk to him, Brian; he's feels threatened when I'm around."  
  
"It's just because you two are so close in age."  
  
Justin socked you in the stomach and agreed, "Yes, I remember bumping into Gus when we shared a crib together. Boy, times have changed, huh?"  
  
"I'll talk to him again. Though I'm obviously not doing that right either," you admitted.  
  
You waited a couple of hours and then pulled Gus away from his _Xbox_ and brought him up to your office. He sat on the sofa, the game controller still in his hand. "What?" he scoffed.  
  
"Don't take that attitude with me," you warned him.  
  
"Well, I was about to win that level; I was finally beating that kid in Sweden. Now I have to start over."  
  
"Okay, well my condolences for that tragedy. We'll notify NATO. I want to know why you get so upset when you see me with Justin."  
  
"I don't get 'upset,'" he remarked with way too much attitude.  
  
"You just freaked out a couple hours ago when we were in the kitchen--"  
  
"Oh my god, Dad. Don't talk about it. Seriously. Let it go." He pulled out his phone and tried to pretend he was getting a text. You took it away from him and put it on your desk. "I want an answer, Gus. I don't like feeling uncomfortable in my own house."  
  
"Okay, here's your answer: it's…kind of gross. Okay? Can I go now?"  
  
Part of you wanted to pin him against the wall and ask him where in the hell he got off being a smart ass to you, but then you remembered that he's _your_ son and that in some karma-soaked way, you probably deserved this. You heard a noise in the hallway and knew that Justin (master sleuth and all) was clearly listening to the conversation from the other side of the wall. Gus stood up and tried to reach for his phone, and you put your hand over it and told him, "Sit down. I'm not finished."  
  
"I don't even know why I need to be here," Gus said. "You don't want me here and I have a newer _Xbox_ at Uncle Michael's anyway."  
  
“You’re here because you’re my son, and it’s Christmas—“  
  
“Yeah, but it used to be just me and you. Now it’s me, you, and tons of people I don’t even know.”  
  
"Gus, we can do father/son stuff; I just feel like all you want to do is stare at a screen and play video games.”  
  
He tried to change the subject, "That little girl won't leave me alone, Dad."  
  
"Who? Amelia? You should like her. She's very straight and has great taste in men."  
  
"She can't even talk right. And that big muscle guy keeps calling me 'Little Boss Man' all the time and won't let me just play my game in freaking peace. He thinks he's good, but he's old and he sucks."  
  
You sighed; this was going nowhere. "What’s your problem with Justin?"  
  
"I don't know; I don't really know him, and he acts like he's scared of me. Plus he's more than ten years older than me and we're almost the same height. Is he like a midget or something?"  
  
"No, he's not a midget, Gus. Justin, come in here."  
  
Justin rounded the wall and gave you an embarrassed look and a little wave, "Hi Gus." He sat down next to your son. Amazingly, Gus lived through that moment, and Justin was clearly chomping at the bit to get in on this conversation, "Gus, you know I've known you since you were a baby right? Since the night you were born? I actually, sort of, named you."  
  
Gus rolled his eyes, “I know.”  
  
"Look, if something is bothering you about us, you can say it. It's okay," Justin tried.  
  
Gus turned at looked right at Justin, "Okay. I don't like it when you touch my dad...like you do, and the way you look at him; makes me feel weird. I don’t know why."  
  
You felt yourself getting pissed off and you knew Justin could tell because he put his hand up like it alone was going to hold you back while he talked to your son, "Gus, we really try not to overdo it when you're here because we know it makes you uncomfortable, but what I don't quite understand is, well, do you feel this way about your moms, too?"  
  
Gus responded like it was a dumb question, "No."  
  
You felt like you were watching a tennis match as Justin kept trying, "Okay, so it's because we're guys and you're a guy?" (Justin was trying so hard that you started to feel bad for him.) "But, I mean, if that's the case, Michael and Ben are guys, and you like being over there, so we don't understand."  
  
And that's when it hit you what Gus's problem was, and you looked at Justin and made it clear that you were taking over this conversation, "Okay, I think I see the problem. Gus, you're a smart kid. You understand the concept of 'newlyweds,' right?"  
  
"Yeah," Gus said in a defensive way that clearly meant, _well sort of, not really._  
  
"Well, good, then you understand that that's what Justin and I are. Your mothers and Michael and Ben have been married since dinosaurs roamed the earth; Justin and I have married for ten months--"  
  
" _Ten and a half,_ " Justin whispered.  
  
You gave him a cross look and turned your attention back to your son and spoke a phrase that would’ve made you vomit in years past and forced you to admit to yourself that fatherhood changes you, "We're in what people call the 'honeymoon period.'"  
  
"When is it over?" Gus asked you like it was a disease you were suffering from.  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, "It ends when it ends. You're just going to have to grin and bear it. Justin lives here; this is his house, too, and we're all going to get along, and that's the end of this ridiculousness. And if you don't like it when we hug or whatever, then don't watch. We're not particularly interested in being stared at, so that shouldn't be too difficult. Understand?"  
  
"Yeah," Gus said in a way that meant, _can we please be done with this?_ "Can I go now?"  
  
"Yep, get out of here. Better go fast because I think I'm going to kiss him again." And then you reached for Justin like you were a possessed zombie, and he slapped you away, "Stop it, Brian! That's creepy!" Gus ran out of your office as fast as he could. You got up to leave as well, and Justin pulled your hand to stop you. "What?" you asked.  
  
"I remember the good old days when you liked people watching us," he chided you.  
  
"My son doesn't need to know that, okay?"  
  
"I don't ever want the honeymoon period to end," he said with a little sadness in his voice.  
  
You pulled him into your arms and groped his ass, "Oh you silly, silly midget; it doesn't have to end. We're just not telling _him_ that."  
  
"You better stop calling me a fucking midget, Brian."  
  
"Aw, you don't scare me, Eggo. Nice try, though."  
  
************  
_but let me tell you, I've got some new for you,  
and you'll soon find out it's true_  
  
Prior to your official Christmas Eve dinner, you were walking down the stairs and into the kitchen when you stopped at the doorway of the hall bathroom. The door was cracked, the light was on, and there was copious whispering going on behind it. You stood and listened for a second, afraid that it was Gus interviewing Zeek about _his_ sexuality; the answers he'd get in that case would be blunt, honest, and probably send your son into a whirlwind of sexual confusion that would cost you at least ten thousand dollars of therapy. After a few seconds of eavesdropping, you realized it was Daniel and Jon, so you knocked with your knuckles and poked your head inside to ask, "What the hell are you queens doing in here?"  
  
"Come here," Daniel said, grabbing your shirt, pulling you inside the small room, and shutting the door.  
  
You threw your hands up as if he'd pulled you into the backroom at Babylon, "I don't do this anymore; I'm flattered but--"  
  
Jon smacked your hand down and whispered, " _We're pretty sure Harper is pregnant again."_  
  
"What? Why?" you asked.  
  
"Because she's not drinking," Daniel said.  
  
"Yes, she is," you defended, "I poured her a glass of wine myself."  
  
"She's not _drinking_ it," Jon stressed, looking at you like you were a moron. (Apparently your half bath was the West Virginian headquarters for _The National Enquirer._ )  
  
"Watch her," Dan said, "She only sips it, and I've seen her trade glasses with Sam when his was empty." "Just watch her when we're all eating together," he suggested, "See if I'm wrong." You heard Justin's voice in the hallway calling for you, so you reached an arm out of the bathroom, yanked him in, too, and bestowed him with the same information. "We're shrinks," Jon said, shrugging at Justin's shock, "We're observant."  
  
At dinner on Christmas Eve Night, Gabe announced that he and Daniel had finally found a place they liked in New York and were moving in January. Daniel's place hadn't sold yet, but he had a few good offers and felt optimistic that one of those would go through. Witnessing Gabe's happiness chafed Zeek, as usual, so Emmett cordially invited him to stay behind and continue to work at Zeal because, "I, the illustrious Swizzle Stick, will be your new boss." "The hell you will, Dandy Cane." Zeek said, prompting a very stern look from Melanie and Lindsay about his choice of words in the presence of little ones. Harper seemed to take the bad language a bit too seriously, covering her mouth and pushing away from the table with, "Excuse me," and running into the hallway. You caught the over-concerned look on Sam's face and in a split second sent your silent observation to Justin who sent it to Daniel who sent it to Jon who sent it right back to you. You looked away offering rolls to Rube, but the room was quiet enough for everyone to hear Amelia from the kid's table, "Brime Kinney, Mommy just frows up a lot." She shrugged her small shoulders, and Sam gave you a sheepish smile, got up and reassured his daughter as he followed Harper's previous footsteps, "She'll be okay, 'Melia."  
  
"Yeah, 'cause I already knowed that, Daddy," she replied.  
  
_Well,_ you thought, _now everybody knowed that._  
  
And in all of the Christmas festivities, revelations and general holiday hubbub that went on that night, neither you nor Justin ever heard the doorbell ring.  
  
************  
**JUSTIN'S POV**  
_we give it to the people, spread it across the country_  
  
Once it became common knowledge that night that Harper was indeed pregnant, there were congratulatory hugs and a conscious effort not to make too big a deal out of it because it was still very early. From your calculations, she got pregnant in Georgia, which didn't surprise you. The veracity of Sam and Harper's sexual exploits on that trip were the reason you insisted on paying and staying in a better hotel where the walls weren't made out of newspaper.  
  
After dinner, after the kitchen was cleaned and the children were supposedly tucked in their beds, you brought Harper, Sam, Daniel, Jon, Gabe and Zeek up to your studio for a meeting. Brian hung back in the doorway on child watch because keeping Amelia in her bed had become almost more exciting than the arrival of Santa Claus. Your friends sat on stools around your table as you explained what you'd been working on for the last couple of months. "It's a resource center," you explained, "That focuses on art. I have a huge amount of space--"  
  
"Justin, the rent alone--," Daniel remarked.  
  
"There's no rent," you explained, "I own this property outright." You pretended not to notice when Jon jabbed Daniel with his elbow and repeated in a whisper, " _He owns it outright_ ". Dan apologized, "Okay, got it. Sorry to interrupt. Continue."  
  
"There are five units total that I'm renovating, so let's start in the middle," you pointed to your blue prints, "This unit, number three in the middle here, is a free art experience studio where people of all ages can come experiment with new mediums, like one week it'll be painting on canvas and then one week it'll be ceramics, and on and on."  
  
"Wow," Harper said with a smile.  
  
"And photography?" Sam asked.  
  
"Yep," and you continued, "I'm working on getting local artists to volunteer during those times, like a potter to come during ceramics or whatever, and help people try things out. It's a lot of planning. Then unit two will be devoted to classes of all kinds, not free, but inexpensive--"  
  
Zeek interrupted looking defensive, "Wait, who's doing this work? Who got this bid?"  
  
"I've got a general contractor, Zeek," you said, "This job is huge. It's not a one man job."  
  
"Well, I would've liked to be considerate," he puffed  
  
Gabe pulled him back from the table, "It's _considered_ , Zeek. You would've liked to be _considered_ for the job."  
  
"You're not even going to be here. You're going back to New York in less than a month," you tried.  
  
"Fuck how you say it. You know what I mean," he shot back. You gave Brian a rather stern look, and he called Zeek over and pulled him out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.  
  
"Okay, so anyway. Sorry about that. I sort of thought he knew about this. Anyway, unit one will be staff offices and space devoted to occupational and art therapists, like the people who helped me use my hand again after I got hurt."  
  
"This is unbelievable," Jon said. "You did this yourself?"  
  
"I have a lot of help with the parts I'm not good at like permits and things. Brian has a ton of connections. Okay, so anyway, unit four is going to be devoted to specially themed day camps in the summer and rented out for birthday parties and wine and paint nights the rest of the year. Apparently, a drunk painting craze is sweeping the nation."  
  
"This must be in the suburbs," Harper said, "How do I not know about this?" Sam laughed at her.  
  
"Okay, and unit five, the last unit, will be devoted to small studios that artists can rent out and our art gallery where we can hold fund raising events and art sales and things like that. The artists that have studio space will have their rent subsidized by their participation in our programs." The next few minutes were spent passing around sketches and answering endless questions. Brian opened the door at one point, and Zeek came back in and apologized to you, "Sorry. I was being a jack ass, Eg--, Justin. Just forget what I said."  
  
"It's forgotten," you said. Eventually the questions stopped and the room got quiet again. When it did, you began, "But the reason I brought you all here for Christmas and in here tonight, is, well, because...I want to name this...the 'Alley Oop Art Space' in memory of Alan, and I want to know, Harper and all of you... if you're okay with that?"  
  
......  
  
The room got quiet again. Very quiet. Brian nodded at you, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
************  
_say what you wanna say  
and let the words fall out_  
  
It was your first Christmas Eve since coming back; it was your first Christmas _with_ Brian, really, and all you could think about was how grateful you were for him, for the man you married, for the man who waited for you (and you alone) in your bed, the man who didn't undress until you said good night to those who were staying at your house and good-bye to those who were going back home. Ever since Gus had arrived, Brian made it clear that he wasn't undressing until the two of you called it a night and your bedroom door was locked. And for a man who doesn't like doors or barriers of any kind, not to mention locked ones, he liked them more than explaining what Gus may have accidentally witnessed the two of you doing in the middle of the night (on his trip a few months prior) to Mel. (For the record, it wasn't your stupid idea to call it 'exercising.')  
  
"Well?" Brian asked, his eyes searching your face for hope, "How did it go? What did they say?" You closed your bedroom door and pushed the lock in with your finger. "Tell me," he repeated, although by then you were standing between his legs, feeling his hands roam beneath your shirt.  
  
"I love you," you said.  
  
He smiled as you held his face and kissed him. "I love you, too. You were worried about what Harper would say, so what did she say?" he asked again.  
  
"There was a lot of crying," you admitted.  
  
"You look none the worse for wear," Brian offered.  
  
"She agreed to it. Sam agreed. Daniel--"  
  
"Fell apart again?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, but we were all there, and we picked him back up. Gabe's taking him home now. He'll be okay."  
  
"So the tour is still on?"  
  
"Yep, we're meeting everybody at eleven tomorrow morning," you explained, and then began to make a concerted effort to get your clothes off, happy when Brian followed your lead. You sat in his lap; his arms coiled around you..  
  
"Do you promise to be quiet if I fuck you like this?" Brian asked.  
  
"I'll do my best. It gets really deep--," and you didn't finish your sentence because it already was.  
  
"Well, you're on Santa's lap," Brian teased, "What would you like for Christmas young man?"  
  
You decided to go for broke (first Christmas and all that), "Tomorrow afternoon, when everyone's gone from our house and we're not expected anywhere, I'd like to take my time and full advantage of our age difference and fuck you into the middle of next week."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"At the moment," you said.  
  
Brian gave a fake 'thinking' face he loves and said, "Well, I'll consider it. Sometimes Santa likes to do charity for elves this time of year."  
  
"Okay, you need to stop with the short jokes. It's not my fault that your son looks like one of stilt-walkers in the circus."  
  
"I've tried to tell him that this is the path one takes to tall, dark, and handsome, but he doesn't believe me."  
  
"Well, he likes me now because I got him upgraded from the kid's table," you told him. "I'm back on his good side."  
  
"Yeah, that was a good idea. He looked like Lerch sitting over there," Brian agreed, steering your hips until they were making the motion he wanted, and then he backed off just a little so you wouldn't run out the clock too fast on a very nice fuck. Maybe you were too quiet when it was over, maybe that quiet made Brian's mind start cataloging everything that had happened in the last couple months. You were pressed against him, enjoying his fingers playing with your hair when he tried, "You should feel relieved after all this. There are no more secrets. Everybody knows everything."  
  
"It's not really about that," you said.  
  
"Then what? What's the matter?"  
  
"I feel like I didn't handle it right with my dad, like maybe I was an asshole for no reason."  
  
"You had plenty of reasons," Brian said.  
  
"Maybe they were dumb reasons," you tried.  
  
Brian sighed and lifted your chin so he could see your face, "What you want out of your life, Justin, is just as important as what anyone else wants out of theirs. That's all life is, figuring out ways to get what you want and how to enjoy it once you've gotten whatever you end up getting."  
  
"I think I was mean," you confessed.  
  
"You weren't, and if I thought that you were, I would've told you. Haven't I always told you when I think you're going too far?" Justin sighed, unconvinced, so you continued, "And you're a good man, Justin Taylor. You were born that way. There isn't a bad bone in your body."  
  
"Except the one in my ass at the moment," you pointed out.  
  
"Well, present cock accepted."  
  
......  
  
The following morning, the kids opened their presents before the crack of dawn, and then everyone journeyed to Pittsburgh to see the art center in progress. You walked everyone through explaining away while Amelia ran screaming through all the empty space burning off the excess sugar from her six a.m. candy binge. When you got to unit four, Daniel looked up at the sign over the door and with a concerned look on his face said, "Justin, what is this place? A store?" He even tried the door and it was locked.  
  
"It's my dad's electronics store," you said, "He's moving out soon."  
  
You could tell that Daniel had many more questions but perhaps the rather stern look on your face convinced him not to ask them. He peeked inside instead and replied, "Well, looks like there's a huge sale starting tomorrow."  
  
"Yep. Come on," you encouraged, "Let's finish the tour."  
  
************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_standing in the hall of fame  
and the world's gonna know your name_  
  
That Christmas day the roads toward home were almost empty. Justin refused to wear his seatbelt because it was keeping him too far away from you. His amorous overtures made you almost pull off on the side of the freeway and plant his blond head in your lap, but you knew that because it was Christmas, every do-gooder on the highway would stop and offer to help, and you didn't need that. By the time you pulled into your driveway, your hand was inside his underwear and he was moaning your name.  
  
_Merry. Fucking. Christmas._  
  
You stopped in the driveway when you saw it, the large square purple and white Fed Ex box, half of it sitting on your front stoop and the other half tilting into your bushes. Justin's eyes opened; his gaze followed yours, "What's that?"  
  
"I guess it was delivered yesterday. Did you order something for me?" you asked with a Santa-like twinkle in your eye.  
  
"Everything I ordered for you is in my pants right now," he teased.  
  
"Well, then, it's a mystery," you decided.  
  
Once inside, you opened the large square box with your pocket knife while Justin tidied up the living room as it was awash with crumbled up wrapping paper and bows. You peered inside and saw a giant red basket wrapped in copious amounts of cellophane and a plain white card tied to the green bow. Your reading glasses were in a drawer in the foyer table, and you donned them to read the card that was now open in your hand:  
  
_Brian,  
  
With the passing of Steve Jobs, world re-known visionary and our fearless leader and, the time has come to usher a new set of visionaries into APPLET-- the Apple Pilot-Project for Lifestyle Enrichment®. We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen as a key seed in our advertising and marketing core. Please enjoy the holidays and when you have a moment, text 'accept' to the phone number you use for iWINN ®. Instructions on how to proceed from that point will be sent to you. Please allow 3-5 days for delivery from date of text.  
  
On behalf of the vision that Steve made a reality and the entire APPLET® project, I thank you for your dedicated participation in the beta testing of our product and wish you a Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. Enjoy the apples; they are a variety from all over the world--just like us.  
  
Welcome aboard,  
G. Clooney_ ”  
  
You read it twice; your eyes shifted to see if Justin was paying any attention to you, and he wasn't, so you celebrated with a quiet but knowing smile in the hallway mirror and then tucked the card and your readers back in the drawer. By the time Justin questioned you, you had all but closed the box and were offering to take the bags of trash to the garage for him. "Thanks," he said, "I know you like things neat and clean. You're more relaxed." He was making a reference to your upcoming bedroom festivities, and he was right. "What's in the box?" he asked.  
  
"Gift from a client."  
  
"Delivered to our house? That's kind of weird."  
  
"Yeah. It's just a bunch of fruit."  
  
"Is that a subliminal homosexual slur? A bunch of fruit on our doorstep?"  
  
You rolled your eyes at him, "Seriously?"  
  
"You're a very fresh fruit," he responded, "I'm just saying."  
  
"I'll take the trash out and meet you upstairs, okay?" you offered.  
  
"Deal."  
  
......  
  
When you got up to your bedroom, Justin was waiting for you dangling a sprig of mistletoe over his dick. He fucked you twice and then congratulated you on, "Getting to the next level in that fucking cult."  
  
You confronted him, "You peeked in the drawer."  
  
"You found your own glasses. I knew something was up."  
  
"Are you mad?" you asked.  
  
"That card was really from George Clooney?"  
  
"Yeah," you grinned.  
  
"Hell, no, I'm not mad. He's hot."  
  
You probably deserved that.  
  
************  
_I'm bringing sexy back_  
  
Citing the unrelenting competition he faced from online retailers, Craig informed Justin he wouldn't be renewing his lease. Justin agreed to let his father ride out the holiday season in his current space as long as he vacated by January 31, 2012. In the meantime, Justin spent his days at Kinnetik in an unused office full of designs, sketches, blue prints, financial and fund raising forecasts. General contractors and sub contractors filtered in and out all the time. You road to work separately each day so Justin could take meetings when he needed to; you let him use Ted whenever he needed him and as the project began to get bigger, you advised him to consider hiring an assistant to help him, even offering Cynthia to weed through applicants for him. He was very grateful but declined (marriage seems to make the stubborn even more so...) and often expressed that you were doing too much for him but at the same time, seemed to understand that it's just your way. If he scoffed too much, you'd back off for a few days and try to blend into the background.  
  
Justin had been home for almost a year when Craig vacated his unit. To celebrate the impending renovations, you wore nothing to bed that night but a bright yellow hard hat and a tool belt stocked with lube, dildos, anal beads. Upon seeing you, Justin rolled his eyes at you and said, "You're a total fucking idiot, you know that?"  
  
"They're _your_ dildos," you reminded him, splaying your hands at the selection you were offering.  
  
" _You're_ a dildo," he replied.  
  
"It's important to spice up our sex life now that we're married," you explained, "Or so I've read in Theodore's internet history."  
  
"I am not fucking one of the Village People," Justin declared.  
  
He had a good point, so you offered, "Want me to go get the other five?"  
  
He didn't.

************

 _you’ve got the best of my love_  
  
They say the first year of marriage is always the toughest, and when February of 2012 rolled around, you had little evidence to the contrary. And the fact that your relationship with Justin had survived the plethora of ups and downs continued to surprise you. The bond you felt with him was something you'd never experienced with anyone else, and it no longer caused fear to simmer inside you. It felt almost redundant, this pact of love and friendship. It could morph and change like an amoeba and yet never breach a boundary.  
  
_"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 10, 2012. If you’re receiving this customized greeting, it’s because you forgot that today's our one year anniversary. But I forgive you because you’re a very busy man and because you fucked me so hard this morning that I slept until noon. I don’t know what got into you. For dinner tonight, you’re having an exquisite fellatio appetizer, followed by Twink casserole topped with candied walnuts and a nice tossed salad with our exclusive House dressing. Hurry home. I’ll be waiting……in the studio. And please be careful, Mr. Kinney; it looks like rain…….. Happy Anniversary, Brian. I love you.”_  
  
There was good food, wine, and a rendezvous in Justin’s studio. He invited you up there after dinner that night, and when you walked into the room, he was sitting on his table completely naked and smiling. The lights were dimmed; the rain outside was almost deafening. Before the evening went completely carnal, you handed him some legal papers and a pen, a gesture you'd planned to give him on Valentine's Day, “This makes it legally official. It’s a will, power of attorney, a trust for Gus, and anything else we need to protect ourselves. I had them drawn up for both of us. We have to sign them in front of a notary which means Theodore; you can read them over when you’re not…um….” You looked at your hand and the papers were gone, scattered on the table and pushed aside, the pen clinked on the floor and rolled away. You were pulled between his legs; you felt them wrap around you. “I want you to do illicit things to me,” Justin said.  
  
You teased him, “There’s a paper for that, too. Let me see if I can find it….” You leaned toward the pages and Justin yanked you back, “Very funny.” Then he took one of your hands and brought it down between his legs, pressing it against his cock. You watched his face, his head down staring at his lap; his eyes lidded; his lips turning a darker pink. He was moaning softly and kissing the base of your neck whispering, “ _How could you forget our anniversary?_ ”  
  
"I don't know. I think I'm subconsciously afraid of your sex drive on special occasions."  
  
Justin laughed a little and in a hushed voice said, " _You created this monster. Now you have to tame him."_  
  
“If you keep doing that breathy, whispering thing, I’m going to have to fuck the shit out of you.”  
  
" _Tie me up,_ " he begged.  
  
"Um, no, 'cause if I do that you won't cling to me like Saran Wrap and whisper dirty things into my ear."  
  
His voice was slippery, low, and seductive, “Okay, then, remind me why I came back here. Pound it into me.” You popped the buttons on your pants, and immediately, Justin’s hands were in them, freeing your dick, kissing you and pulling you down as he lay back on the table. “ _The last time we did this, it wasn’t raw,_ ” he reminded you.  
  
“We’re going to make a mess,” you told him.  
  
“So what?” He spread his arms on the table to demonstrate, “It’s a canvas…and this is art.”  
  
You looked around and made sure any and all legal papers were on the floor and wouldn’t fall victim to this wound-too-tight fuck that was about to happen. You yanked your shirt off over your head and entered him with one of his legs on your shoulder and your pants still threaded through one foot. He threw his hands up over his head and tried to brace himself on something, but it never worked; you had all of him, his body shuffling, moaning and squeezing. You could feel his hand working hard between you while he kept puffing words into your ear, “ _Yes, yes, yes, Brian. God._ ” And in the sensual aftermath, you enjoyed the mess you'd made quietly, just being inside him, just feeling his fingers running over your scalp. "We kept our promise, our deal with each other," he said.  
  
"Which one?" you asked because your mind was lost in the tactile experience and couldn't exactly recall.  
  
Justin's voice was so smooth, so confident, so honest, "You said, a year ago, that you wanted lots of drama and lots of fucking. We delivered on both."  
  
"We most certainly did."  
  
"Sometimes I worried that it was a little too heavy on the drama," he admitted to you.  
  
"Sometimes I worried it was, too," you conceded.  
  
He brushed his hand across your cheek, "But I don't worry about anything anymore. You make me very happy, Brian Kinney."  
  
......  
  
......  
  
"You coming home is the best thing that's ever happened to me," you told him.  
  
"I make you happy?" he asked you.  
  
"Happy doesn't begin to cover it, Sunshine."  
  
You felt his whole body smile; his arms tightened around your neck, his legs around your waist. "Can I have seconds, please?" he asked, slowly rocking his hips.  
  
You sighed and kissed him, and then whispered your attempt at a compromise, "Not quite yet. Can I interest you in a rousing game of spin the dildo?"  
  
"Absolutely...bring it."  
  
************  
**DANIEL CARTWRIGHT'S POV**  
_give me one reason to stay here,  
and I'll turn right back around_  
  
_Friday, February 17, 2012_  
  
You and Gabe had been living in your new house in a trendy Brooklyn neighborhood for about three weeks on the night of your house warming party. You were the one who had to set the date because the only person who could out-nest and out-decorate you ended up being the man you were living with. If Gabe had has his way, he would've needed at least a year to be ready to have people over. In some type of psychological-karma switch-a-roo, you were madly in love with the one person whose OCD was worse than yours. Well, you thought, small sacrifice for happiness and unintentional job security.  
  
_Happiness._  
  
It snuck up on you while you were unpacking boxes; it had the nerve to show its face before your old townhome was officially sold. On the day it was sold, you went in alone and feeling strong. The buyer was a corporation intending to use the townhome for visiting employees. You disclosed what had happened at the property to their representative with as little emotion as you could manage. It didn't seem to phase the guy, and you found that it gave you a bit of relief and made the sale go a bit easier. When you went home to Gabe that night, you were determined to let bygones truly be bygones. Gabe planned the party; you did the inviting. Brian and Justin were coming in from Pittsburgh at tad earlier than the invitation, so when there was a knock at your door around six fifteen that evening, you expected it to be them, but instead it was Sam. He explained that he needed to talk to you before the party, and that it was personal, so you let Gabe know the two of you were going into your new home office to talk. Sam seemed nervous, a bit jittery.  
  
"What's up?" you asked. "You look a little tense."  
  
Sam seemed a bit embarrassed as he looked around your new surroundings, "Things have been happening really fast, it seems like."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
He tried again, "Sometimes it feels like your life just snowballs, and you can't stop it, you know?"  
  
"Sam, what's the matter? You're being a little jumpy and cryptic."  
  
"I promised Harper...that I would do this for her. She wants to be here, but--" And then Sam reacted to the confusion on your face by making it worse, "We've been offered a drawbridge."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"We wanted to let you know before the party because they'll be here and decisions will be made."  
  
You've seen patients do this bizarre deflecting routine before, so you tried to circumvent it. "Whatever it is, whatever that means, ‘a drawbridge’; just tell me."  
  
"Okay," Sam said clapping his hands together and leaning forward on his knees, his words escaping his mouth as if they heard the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby, "Brian has offered to buy us a house in Pittsburgh; I mean, like a foreclosure or something that he'll help us renovate and finance from him directly; Justin offered us, Harper and I, jobs at the new art center. I mean, I don't know exactly when, but we're going to move away. ...I'm sorry."  
  
Gabe poked his head in your office to see if the two wanted something to drink, but you waived him out and rolled your desk chair closer to Sam, putting your hands around his. Your voice was as clear as you could manage, "Congratulations. That's wonderful. I'm so happy for you."  
  
Sam looked at you like he was trying to gauge your sincerity and found himself unable, "Amelia will have a front yard and a back yard, and we can afford things for her there that we can't afford living here, things she wants to do."  
  
"And she'll have a big house to run around in with her new brother or sister," you added.  
  
"The schools...they're pretty good."  
  
"Sam, this is just what you guys need. It's a blessing...and a very generous offer," you said, “The cost of living here in the city is insane for a family of four.”  
  
"We, especially Harper, we don't want to leave you behind." He wiped a tear making its way down his face.  
  
"What? Leave me here in my new house all alone with my smoking hot, _Top Chef_ boyfriend?" you teased him, "How could you, Sam? You jerk."  
  
Sam laughed as the relief flooded out of him, "Dan, you've done so much for us; you did so much for Alan; we feel like we're betraying you by doing this even though it's what we need to do."  
  
You told him the truth, "Listen, everything happens for a reason, and if this is the next step for your family, then take it with gusto, please. Nothing would make me happier. Nothing."  
  
"You can come visit," he pointed out.  
  
"Yes, of course. I would love to."  
  
Sam kept justifying to assuage his unnecessary guilt, "Brian said that he's a father, too, and that sometimes you have to make a decision that's best for your kids."  
  
"He's right."  
  
"We have to look at some options tonight, some info on possible houses."  
  
"That's perfectly fine. I'd love to see some of the possibilities. Does Amelia know?" you asked.  
  
"Sort of. We can't get real specific with her because she thinks we're actually going to live with Brian," Sam laughed and rolled his eyes, "And we want to wait until we actually have a house to show her."  
  
"Good idea. Harper is excited about this, right?"  
  
"She's over the moon and feels horribly guilty at the same time--"  
  
"Oh goodness. That's just not necessary," you stressed.  
  
"She sent me here because she felt like she couldn't have this conversation without bawling, and she's pregnant, so when she starts crying, she can't stop. They'll be here any minute; I was about twenty minutes ahead of them. She took Amelia to the park and tried to wear her out so we can get her to settle down before the party really starts."  
  
Less than ten minutes after finishing your conversation with Sam, you were standing in your hallway watching a pink tornado coming toward you, droplets of melting snow flying off her coat and mittens, screaming as only Amelia could, "Dr. Car-ride!"  
  
When Justin and Brian arrived about half an hour later, everyone postponed your housewarming celebration to focus on the information they brought for Harper and Sam. Brian had details on three different houses that he’d narrowed down with the help of Justin’s mother. He methodically went over the pros and cons of each until Gabe’s foreseeable anxiety about the food sitting too long (and being less than perfect) surfaced, “Why don’t we just have this conversation during dinner?” he asked. And so everyone relocated to your dining room table and while Brian continued to explain everything, Amelia appeared next to your thigh. “Sit on your wap,” she ordered and before you could pick her up to fulfill your request, she preceded to climb rather awkwardly towards her destination. You listened to information about the different school systems while Amelia picked at your salad, downing your croutons like she hadn’t been fed in a week. Harper and Sam were settling on their first choice in properties while you were realizing that you while you would miss the two of them dearly, it was the little one sitting on your lap whom you would most certainly miss the most. You didn't know it that night, but Harper, Sam, Amelia, and the baby-to-be would be gone from the city in less than two months.  
  
************  
**ZEEK ZIRROLLI'S POV**  
_buy a one way ticket_  
  
_April 5, 2012, 5:37 a.m., leaving New York City_  
  
On the one year anniversary of Alan Harper's murder, you were driving down the interstate headed to just inside the Pennsylvanian border with West Virginia with a box truck full of Harper's shit knowing this would be the last time you moved her. You were following your little brother in his royal blue, top of the line Prius; his clown car full of fairies. Stitch was clean shaven in your too-big clothes leaning against the passenger door of the truck, the window partway down, the gasoline-scented air rushing in. "This is the first time I've left New York City in over twenty years," he said. "Feels weird."  
  
"You'll be fine," you told him, Just enjoy the scenery."  
  
"I forgot what riding in a truck feels like," he told you with a sigh, "And that nursery set we loaded, that thing was heavy as shit."  
  
"Yo, no fucking shit, man. Rich people don't buy furniture you put together with an allen wrench."  
  
"It was Ethan _Allen_ furniture," Stitch pointed out, "There are way too many 'Alans' in this whole situation today."  
  
You both got quiet. You'd started the day at fuck-o'clock in the morning, four a.m., at Daniel's old place, all of you--the doc, the other doc, your little brother, Stitch, and the priest. He said a few words about Alan, about grief, about moving on and shit, and then you and Stitch loaded the nursery furniture into the truck, throwing a bunch of blankets over it to hide it because ultimately it was a surprise gift. Then all of you went to Harper's apartment and loaded up everything they hadn't already taken. She and Sam were already at Kinney's, having gone down a few days before to start getting settled. Your little brother was pretty proud of himself, having gotten his doc boyfriend to suggest today as the official moving day like it was his own idea. Some kind of memory replacement magic. (You thought it meant that he'd been dating a shrink for long enough.) Yesterday, you'd picked up Stitch, brought him to your place and cleaned him up, no more long hair and bushy gray beard or sour smell. He was practically bald now with a beanie pulled over his scalp; nobody would recognize him. It was your idea to bring him along. He didn't deserve to be alone today, and you damn sure needed some muscle to get this done as you highly doubted the rumors that Kinney would be waiting with his sleeves rolled up to help you empty this truck.  
  
Dan was to notify Justin via text when your posse was thirty minutes out so he and his MILF mother could swoop up Harper and Amelia and take them curtain shopping or some shit. If Justin had Kinney's credit card, they could be gone for days and need a search party to find their asses. The only upside in driving Harper's shit to her new home hours away from you was that Rube promised to be waiting for you in her new front yard. Not that you'd ever tell him, but you missed him, his wacky eBay deliveries and his dumb ass rainbow suspenders.  
  
The truck had busted shocks, rattled way too much, and smelled like mothballs. You looked over at Stitch; he'd fallen asleep and was snoring. His first long trip in years had knocked him right out. You turned on the radio. Well, you tried. It was busted, too. You locked eyes with the back of the truck in front you; the guy's rig had those mud flaps with the silhouette of that naked chick, but they were old and starting to shred. You sighed and dug in for the five hour drive.  
  
************  
**JUSTIN'S POV**  
_so get ready 'cause here I come_  
  
On the morning of the one year anniversary of Alan's murder, you were assigned about half an hour of Amelia-duty while Harper was in the shower getting ready. Ruben had picked up Sam hours earlier and taken him to the new house where they were going through a punch list of odds and ends that needed to be cleaned or child-proofed. Your mother had found Harper and Sam the perfect little house; it was a red brick ranch built in the sixties with a very dated brick front porch that was home to an old but still functioning white metal swing. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms and old white wrought iron details that stood out against the brick. (It reminded you of your grandparent's house.) "A house like this," your mother said, "Will last forever. These houses were built before the concept of 'cookie-cutter, build them in a month' neighborhoods were even imagined." It was practically in move-in condition if you could stomach the current decor and located right on the edge of Pittsburgh in a neighborhood banked by trees as far as the eye could see. Harper liked the schools, and Sam liked the quiet. Brian liked it because it was a short sale about to become bank owned, and he was able to swoop in, pay cash, and get a good deal. Brian offered Harper and Sam owner financing and included a ten thousand dollar loan to bring the house into the twenty-first century. Harper had already picked out her new kitchen appliances: a fridge, a stove, and a dishwasher that had zero intentions of collaborating against her. You liked the house, too, and were kind of jealous that you never quite had the 'starter-home' experience that your friends were enjoying, but you never said that aloud as they would likely remind you of your 'starter-mansion' and make you feel like an idiot for complaining. To make you feel better about this, you gleefully relocated your gnome statues to Harper's backyard before she moved in. You told her they were good luck.  
  
Pining for small children, however, was not something you'd yet experienced. Perhaps that was the drawback to Amelia's unbridled energy that morning, the sad significance of that day blissfully lost on her. You were standing in the hallway holding the door to your bedroom closed while Amelia bounced up and down, pointing and informing you, "Waffle, I wanna go in der."  
  
"My name is not 'Waffle.' What is my name?"  
  
"Justin," she said with a wacky giggle.  
  
"Right, see, you know my name, so I would like you to call me 'Justin.'"  
  
She tried to get between your legs to open the door while agreeing with you, "Okay, Waffle. Lemme in."  
  
"If you keep calling me 'Waffle,' I'm changing your name to 'Broccoli.'"  
  
"Broccowi! I am not _geen!_ "  
  
"And I am not a waffle!"  
  
"Criss cwoss is a waffle," she said, and then she held up her fingers in a pound sign, something Sam taught her, no doubt.  
  
" _That's_ a hashtag."  
  
Amelia furrowed her brow, looked at her fingers again, and then looked back up at you, " _Dat_ is a waffle."  
  
This was going nowhere fast.  
  
"Okay, let me go see if Brian is still asleep. You stay right here, okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
You opened the door, slipped inside and walked over to your bed, "Brian," you said as you shook his shoulder, "You need to wake up."  
  
"No," he mumbled.  
  
"We have to get ready; we have to get over to the--" you said, your words stopping abruptly when the security of your bedroom was breeched by a Tasmanian devil-child in pink flowered pajamas. " _Bri-man Kinney!,_ " Amelia screamed, running toward your husband with both arms up in the air like she was on the last hill of a roller coaster. You panicked, scanned the landscape, and managed to throw a pillow over Brian's sheeted erection just in time for Amelia's arrival. _"Bri-man Kinney, you're 'upposed to wake up now!_ "  
  
"No," Brian said, and he rolled away from her to the other side of the bed. Amelia found this utterly hilarious and ran there as fast as she could to yell at him again, and this time, he opened one eye, stared at her, said, " _No_ ," and rolled away again. The back and forth went on a few more times until Amelia had had enough of the denials and took advantage of your low mattress and just climbed up and sat on Brian's chest. "Who are you?" he asked her, and she screeched, " _I'm AmeliaJocelynHarper-Collins!_ "  
  
You tried to get in on the fun, "Her name is 'Broccoli.'" Your efforts were very unappreciated as a steamed Amelia turned and glared at you, " _No, Waffle!_ "  
  
"I quit," you declared, throwing up your hands.  
  
Brian was up on his elbows staring at his little pink parasite, "What's my name again?"  
  
"Bri-man Kinney!"  
  
"Say it again," he ordered.  
  
" _Bri-man Kinney!_ "  
  
Brian questioned her, "Why are you so excited this morning?" clearly expecting her to mention the new house, her new room, her big backyard, but she answered on another subject entirely, "Bri-man Kinney, I'm gonna have a baby brubber."  
  
Brian looked at her, and then at you and you shrugged; you hadn't been given this news yet. He pushed her for clarification, "You're going to have a baby brother? Is that what you said?"  
  
Before she could answer Brian, a voice came from the doorway; Harper's hair was rolled up in a towel, "Amelia, come on. We have to get dressed."  
  
"No," she said.  
  
Harper sighed, walked in and picked Amelia up off of Brian's chest, "You need to put your listening ears on, Amelia."  
  
"Der broken," she declared as she was removed from the room, wiggling ferociously in her mother's arms in hope of escape.  
  
"Harper," you said, stopping her exit, "Are you really having a boy?"  
  
"Oh my god, did she spill the beans?" Harper asked, exasperated with her loose-lipped daughter.  
  
"Yeah, she says she's having a brother," you said.  
  
Harper sighed, "Yes, I'm having a boy--"  
  
"A brubber," Amelia said.  
  
"He'll be your little brother, Amelia. You'll be a big sister."  
  
"Yeah," she said, "'Cause I already knowed that."  
  
Harper apologized for Amelia's intrusion and took her down the hall to get dressed for the day. Brian turned his gaze from her to you, "Did you hear that? Did you hear what she said?"  
  
"That she's having a boy? Yes, I'm standing right here."  
  
"No," Brian argued, "Not that. Did you hear that extra syllable in my name?"  
  
You sat down beside him, "Do you need me to hold you?"  
  
He flipped you off, flopped back down on the mattress and sighed, "Time is passing, Sunshine. Faster than fuck. It's just flying by."  
  
......  
  
About twenty minutes later, Brian was out of the shower and shaving in the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. You snuck up behind him and hugged him, talking to his back, "You love that little girl _so_ much that you bought her a house."  
  
"No," he said, "That is incorrect. _She_ loves _me_ so much that she _deserves_ a house."  
  
"You never counted on so many people actually loving you, did you?" you asked quietly as you ran your hand down his chest.  
  
Brian paused for a minute, tapping his razor on the edge of the sink, "One just has to hope there are enough houses out there."  
  
"Is mine mortgaged with a thirty-year fixed?" you asked.  
  
Brian laughed and tucked your hand inside his towel, "No, it's a balloon mortgage."  
  
A few minutes later, he came in the sink.  
  
************  
_out of the darkness and into the sun_  
  
By May 2012, Sam was essentially your full time assistant at Alley Oop, and Harper worked part time having gotten Amelia into a part-time preschool program. You trusted them enough to run the place if you wanted a day or two off, and after working there non-stop since January and, by default, neglecting your own studio time, the urge to paint became too strong to ignore. So, you gave in. You gave in on a Friday in the middle of May because Brian was in California at an APPLET® retreat that week, and Roger had the week off. You needed the house to yourself. You started your morning with a hefty bowl of cereal, (realizing that you tended to overeat when Brian was gone), took a long, hot shower and put on your favorite old ratty painting clothes.  
  
It was now or never.  
  
First, you had to rearrange the studio a bit to give yourself more open space. Next, you stood at the window and began to unravel the huge cloth you'd thrown over the ruined mural, coughing as you proceeded because dust flew everywhere. The exposed canvas covered in putty-colored primer stared back at you like it was wondering what took you so long. Carefully, you wedged it out from behind the other canvases, pulled it to the far end of the room and then slowly maneuvered it onto your horizontal table that was two thirds the size of the painting. It wasn't an easy job, but there was a part of you that felt it needed to feel difficult to feel right.  
  
************  
**BRIAN'S POV**  
_only hate the road when you're missing home_  
  
Your promotion to a higher level of IWINN® came with an invitation to an all advertising and marketing retreat in May of 2012. That meant spending a week with a group of six of the nation's top advertising executives; you made the seventh. Everyone in the room was a nobody--no celebrities, no moguls, just seven advertising and marketing gurus whose claim to fame was turning around a major product or brand. You were introduced as the man who did just that for Brown Athletics, making it a global name in fitness apparel. Aside from those accolades, you were also elated because you were quite certain that neither Anderson Cooper nor any of his ilk were anywhere near this level. You even double checked with the hotel front desk, making sure that no one by his name or perhaps an assumed name like _Douche Bag_ was staying at your hotel. This was no longer about schmoozing; this meeting was actual work. Your group was tasked with taking the IWINN® concept and finding the right path for its next steps.  
  
As you participated in all the various work groups (often praised for your out-of-the-box thinking), you kept thinking about going back home. The one woman in your midst spent the entire week on her cell with her husband, constantly asking, "Babe, did you remember the permission slip? The sleepover? The blah-blah-blah..." and every time she'd step away to make a call, you wondered what Justin was doing, how he was doing, and what he was wearing while he was doing it. You pondered whether or not you could be pussy-whipped if there was no actual pussy in the equation. By the time your group hosted the week's dinner and presentation on Saturday night, you were pretty much exhausted with the entire concept. You decided to skip the Sunday morning good-bye brunch, feigned a business emergency, and went straight to LAX to catch the next plane back to Pittsburgh.  
  
You arrived home via car service at almost two in the morning and were surprised to hear music blasting as you punched in the code to override your alarm system. Slowly, you made your way up the stairs following the tunes and then stopped by your office door because you could see Justin a few doors down in his studio, painting with more than a bit of abandon. You stopped and just watched; he couldn't see you, so you felt safe for a minute, safe enough to realize what canvas he was passionately slapping black paint on in between a random lyric he'd sing. You bit your lip trying to decide what to do; you didn't want to frighten him or make him think that you'd been watching him, so quietly, you backtracked to the top of your staircase and sent him a text: _Hey. Came home early to surprise u. I'm coming upstairs._  
  
You listened when his phone went off, listened as the volume on the music dropped about halfway, and then you heard his voice, "Brian? You're here?"  
  
You smiled and started walking down the hall and met him in the doorway of his studio. You felt like you had to explain yourself, like you'd done something wrong so you stated the patently obvious, "Hi. I missed you, so I came home early."  
  
Justin smiled, his body swaying, his arms spread wide to brace himself in the doorway. "Hi. That was sweet. I missed you, too." He popped up on his toes to kiss you. He tasted like Jim Beam.  
  
"Watcha doing?" you asked him, clearly glancing over him to the enormous project underway.  
  
He laughed a little, "Mostly making a ridiculous mess."  
  
His arms were still barring the door, so you didn't push him. "I think I'm going to take a quick shower. I missed our hard water. Want to join me?"  
  
"Yeah, but I'm not exactly at a stopping place, so go ahead. I'll be here when you get out," he said, but then he rose up again, this time curling his hand around your neck and pulling you down for a more concerted display of affection. "I really did miss you. A week is too long."  
  
"We're still lesbian newlyweds, I guess," you offered. Justin laughed and kicked you in the butt as you walked away.  
  
......  
  
To this day, you don't even remember taking that shower.  
  
.....  
  
All you remember is walking back into his studio and seeing him with his back to you as he stood at his deep sink. The music was off; the water was running. You took your time getting to him as it felt rather awkward to be in this room with Justin and this particular painting again. He was cleaning his brushes as you stood behind him and ran your hands around his waist. You kissed the back of his neck, breathed him in, paint, chemicals and all as the sink filled with dark grey water. Your body expected that he would lean back a little, rest against you, but he didn't do anything of the sort. He just kept washing, informing you, "There's something in my right front pocket that you should see."  
  
"There is? Okay." You reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded slip of paper. When you unfolded it, you were a little shocked, "Whoa. This is a check for a hundred grand?"  
  
"From Brown Athletics," Justin said, still facing the sink. "Did you know about this?" He turned the water off; the drain gurgled.  
  
"The money? No. I mean, I knew Nate was going to donate, but I thought--I assumed--that meant fifty thousand. Wow."  
  
Justin finally turned around with wet hands; the two of you paused, searching for a towel that you found and handed to him, "There was a letter with it."  
  
"Oh, let me see," you said.  
  
"I already ripped it up and threw it the trash."  
  
The caution you felt when you first saw him painting that night returned. That _something_ that was wrong; this was it, but Justin was being successfully evasive. You spoke a little slower and quieter than before, "Why did you throw it away?"  
  
"It just kind of happened," he said. You put your hand on his upper arm and could feel how tense he was; you pondered what you should say. Nothing was coming to you, so you let your hand skim down his arm so you could hold his hand. He seemed slightly relieved by the gesture. Finally, he spoke again, "I needed you to come home early, and somehow you knew that. Also, I'm a little drunk."  
  
You saw the open bottom of Jim Beam sitting next to the painting, so you picked it up and started to walk toward the futon. He resisted you at first, but it wasn't a rejection of you; it was fear. "I'm gonna get a little drunk over here," you said, pointing to the futon. "Wanna join me?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
He walked with you and sat down, and you started to drink straight from the bottle, occasionally handing it back to him. When the burning warmth started to seep into your bloodstream, you relaxed a little and turned your body, your head resting on your hand. "If you need me, I'm glad I'm here," you said. He looked right into your eyes and unzipped his jeans and then reached for your free hand, scooting closer to you so you could reach him. He slid your hand inside his jeans, and let you feel his erection developing inside his underwear. And then he moved even closer and kissed you. When your hand bypassed his briefs, he turned and sat on your lap in one smooth motion and hugged you, whispering behind your ear, "I missed you so much, Brian." His jeans were tight; you had little room to move, so Justin took care of that, shifting his hips in your hand and moaning so urgently that you weren't the least bit surprised when your hand felt sticky. He kept moving against you like it wasn't over yet so you just held on and let him use the moment.  
  
"At night, all I thought about was you being inside me."  
  
"I took something to help me sleep," you admitted to him, "The whole week. The bed in the hotel felt a mile wide. When did you get the check?"  
  
"Thursday." Your mind was running backwards trying to figure out if he was different when you talked to him Thursday night; the time difference made it tricky to talk for too long, and he was adept at fooling you when you couldn't see his face. As if he was reading your mind, he said, "I didn't want to bother you on your retreat."  
  
"It wasn't like I thought it was going to be. No more celebrities. No Clooney. No Cooper. It was all work."  
  
"You sound disappointed."  
  
"I knew I was being groomed this whole time, but still, I guess I thought they'd knight me or something when I got there. That's so stupid. They groomed a ton of ad execs and marketing people, apparently. I made it into the top seven they chose."  
  
Justin defended the cause he normally despised, "Well, you should feel proud; I'm proud of you. What comes next? A co-dependent toaster oven that needs one of our kidneys to survive?"  
  
You laughed, "They're coming out with new prototypes, but I'll just do software updates."  
  
"If you want the new ones, get them. You earned them, Brian."  
  
"I'll think about it. Did Nate say why the check was so large?"  
  
Justin sighed and laid against you, "Fifty thousand in Alan's memory and fifty thousand...because of what happened to me. It's a yearly donation with no end date."  
  
"That brings you to half a million, right?"  
  
"Just over."  
  
"That 's very generous of him, of Brown, really. Why did you unearth that painting?"  
  
"I felt like it. Something inside me wanted out. And I feel bad that I took it from you."  
  
"Don't. I'm serious," you stressed. Justin sat back and smiled at little as he removed your hand from his pants and wiped it with the inside of his shirt. "Why the letter? What was in it?" you asked.  
  
Justin stared down at your joined laps as he spoke, "Because Nate, I mean, because Brown does Penn State's athletic uniforms and has for quite a while, he has information."  
  
"What information?" you asked, confused.  
  
"When Nate was Brown's Operations Manager or something, he had access to rosters. Preliminary athletic rosters that showed that Hobbs had some kind of partial football scholarship that was revoked because of what he did to me."  
  
The air in the room felt colder on your skin, "For real?"  
  
"Apparently. Did you know this already?" he asked you with a bit of skepticism in his voice.  
  
"Uh, no. Why would I know that?"  
  
"I don't know; I thought maybe Nate already told you."  
  
You shook your head. As if that admission carried a great weight with it, Justin got up and released the lever that flattened the futon. "The lights," you said, and he went to the wall and brought all the dimmers down. You laid back and watched as he undressed from the waist down, welcoming his body back the mattress moments later. You pulled your t-shirt off and then his when he was once again lying next to you. As your bodies melded together, he ran his hand down your back and started to tug at the elastic band on your pants. You reached back and helped him, kicking them to the bottom of the bed. For awhile, you just held him as he held you, kissing his hair and enjoying his hands on your skin. He dozed off for a few minutes, and you stilled your hands and let him cat nap against you. It was almost three in the morning. You, however, were very awake.  
  
No cigarettes in sight either.  
  
When Justin awoke a few minutes later, he denied ever having been asleep.  
  
************  
_how many roads must a man walk done before you call him a man?_  
  
You fucked him on all fours, both of you facing the painting.  
  
He wanted it that way--hard, unyielding, his shoulders sinking low when he was going to come again, a warning signal for you to back off a little, so you did. You slowed down for him, slowed down and watched the pleasure wrestle with his body over and over. How you held back after being away from him for a week, you'll never understand; you just remember that feeling of fucking in quicksand, of having to hold his hips up lest he sink away from you. Finally, you began to tire, and when he began to merge with the mattress, you let him flatten all the way down, covering his body with yours as you moved inside him. "Do you want to come again?" you asked him, "I can't tell."  
  
"I need to tell you something," he said.  
  
You stopped your hips; they felt confused. "What? I'm hurting you?"  
  
"No, of course not. The whiskey's given me a bit of courage, so I just need to say this, okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Back when I was hanging out with Cody and shaved my head and everything, I held a loaded gun at Chris one night. Cody was with me, and I made Chris get down on his knees, forced him to apologize to me and then made him suck the barrel like a cock." Your eyes started blinking very rapidly and wouldn't stop. "I'm sorry I never told you. It's probably why Cody stalked me...because I didn't go through with it. He was extremely pissed about that." A long minute passed as you laid there on top of him. Justin spoke again, "In a way, I blocked it out...but then it came back."  
  
"When you got Nate's letter?" you asked.  
  
"Yeah. Like I thought that there were never consequences for Chris, like real at-the-time consequences, but there were. I mean, a jock from a prep school doesn't just go work construction unless he can't get into a good school, right?"  
  
You rolled off of him and laid on your side. "I don't know," you admitted. "Was he smart?"  
  
"Very," Justin said.  
  
"Where did you do this to him?"  
  
There was nothing but shame in Justin's voice, "In his front yard. We ambushed him one night when he came home from work. He literally shit his pants." You didn't know what to say. He continued, "I don't deserve fifty thousand dollars."  
  
"Justin, they are two separate things. If he hadn't done what he did to you, you wouldn't have reciprocated."  
  
"Two wrongs don't make a right, Brian."  
  
"Yes, but it's not that cut and dry."  
  
"Cody went ballistic when I wouldn't pull the trigger that night."  
  
"That's the difference between you and somebody like Chris or Cody. Chris didn't stop himself; Cody wouldn't have, but you did. You have to see that."  
  
"Yesterday, I didn't go to work. I went to the cemetery...and I apologized to the dead guy who tried to kill me. I apologized for what I did, just me, because I'm not that kind of person, and then...I told him he was still a dick for what he did to me and the horrible things he used to say to me. That is so stupid."  
  
"It's not stupid," you assured him.  
  
"Then I came home and started working on this albatross again." Justin pointed up at the drying canvas, "That painting never told the truth, but it will now--"  
  
You interrupted him, "I'd decided it was about the night you got hurt. The blackness, the blood--"  
  
"It's about all of it. That night I was bashed, you falling apart, Chris terrorizing me, me terrorizing him, Babylon blowing up and nearly killing me again--  
"  
  
"It's the dissonance," you said. "It's all the sense you can't make out of anything. The void. The memories you don't have..." you let your voice drift off. He told Daniel he didn't have 'violent feelings' about the painting, and this was why; he can't feel what he doesn't remember.  
  
"Brian, what if I had done it that night? Pulled the trigger. All the adrenaline running through me...."  
  
"But you didn't. And that distinction matters a whole hell of a lot. If you hadn't needed life-saving help that night you were bashed, I probably would've beaten that kid to a fucking pulp. I wonder about things like that, too. Why didn't you ever tell me about this?"  
  
"I thought you might get really, really mad at me, and then you got fucking cancer and threw me out of the loft anyway."  
  
You sighed at your own myopic tendencies, "I was trying so hard to protect you from everything that I protected you from nothing."  
  
Justin pointed at the painting, "I'm going to call it _Culpability_ when I'm finished."  
  
"So it finally has a name?"  
  
"Yes, finally."  
  
************  
_it's not about the money, money, money_  
  
On April 5, 2013, _Culpability_ had more than just a name; it had a price. It sold for twenty-five thousand dollars at the grand opening event and art auction for the Alley Oop Art Center. But this time, it wasn't your money or Daniel's, or even Anderson Cooper's (although you were convinced for about thirty minutes that it had to be the little geriatric sprite.) The buyer was anonymous, but you were determined to figure it out in between helping Justin pull this event off. The center had a soft opening in January of 2013, and had been open to the public since that time, but that night in April was the real thing. There were huge black and white photographs of Alan that Sam had taken over the years hung as vertical banners behind the podium. In one, Alan was in the street walking with a backpack stuffed to the seams; his head down against the wind. In another, he was in the studio at Daniel's old place with Harper and Justin, and in the last, he was playing in that same room with Amelia, both of them with contagious smiles on their faces.  
  
Alan had been dead for two years. Harper gave a speech about her brother; Justin gave a speech about his own circumstances and his passion for art and now, the center. Amelia followed you around since her dad was busy with her now nine month old brother, Owen, most of the time. (He was born in July of 2012 and had big brown chocolate drop eyes like Amelia with dirty blond hair like his mother. Harper named him Owen Tate Collins, and when winter came that year, you presented him with an array of little beanie hats without comment.) By the center's grand opening, Amelia could say your name correctly, and you'd been working with her to drop your last name from the salutation, a request that then lead to her calling you 'Just Brian' most of the time. Gabe and Dan were mingling with everyone and dropping hints that they were about to take their relationship to the next level. Zeek was there with Lana on his arm in what you understood to be a relatively permanent situation; Rube was tending bar and desperately trying to entertain Jon who'd come with Dan and Gabe but clearly felt alone. Emmett was constantly refreshing appetizers. Ted was handling the money coming in from multiple sources from art sales, in person donations and money generated from the center's website; Blake answered the phone. Many of the PIFA artists who had studio space at the center were also there, having contributed some of their own art for the grand opening. Justin had worked his ass off to make the event successful. He'd done everything but the advertising which he willingly let you commandeer. Your efforts meant that there was a decent but not overwhelming flow of visitors that day, folks signing up for classes or just taking advantage of a blank canvas and brand new paint. The event raised over one hundred and seventy thousand dollars, and Justin was proud and thankful. The last check was delivered close to ten p.m. when most of the artists had gone. You saw the kid riding a skateboard in the center's parking lot and thought nothing of it as you made trips back and forth to Justin's Jeep. But as you began to head back inside again, you saw that he was standing in the doorway talking to Justin. As you approached, you saw a concerned and serious look on Justin's face and heard him say, "I can't accept this check. Please tell him thank you, but he can keep the money."  
  
"Don't make me do that," the kid said.  
  
"Everything okay?" you asked as you approached.  
  
Justin seemed tired but determined, "Brian, this is Trevor. My step--"  
  
The kid turned and smiled at you, "Step-brother. It's okay. I'm still in the confused stage; I'm trying not to get freaked out about it." Again, he presented the check to Justin, and Justin shook his head, assuming the role of an older brother in the blink of an eye, "I don't feel comfortable taking this, and it's too late for you to be out by yourself."  
  
"It's okay," Trevor said, "I have a phone. It has a tracker on it." He sort of shook it back and forth and then stuck it back in his pocket.  
  
"This check, this is coming from your Dad? From Craig?" you interjected.  
  
"Yeah," Justin said.  
  
"Then accept it," you advised. Justin gave you a look, took the check out of the kid's hand and handed it to you. It was for five hundred dollars. "I'll put this with the others," you said and slipped back inside. You stood at reception and watched Justin walk outside with Trevor. They spoke for several minutes in the parking lot before Trevor was back on his skateboard and quickly out of sight. It wasn't until the ride home that you offered your opinion, "The event went really well, and I think it's good that you took that check from your Dad."  
  
"I don't think he has a lot of money. I basically put him out of business," Justin said.  
  
"The economy put him out of business, trust me. He had to give me a business plan every year when he renewed his lease. He was steadily losing revenue, and, besides, sometimes money isn't about money."  
  
"I gave Trevor my card and wrote the number to the GLC on it for him. I told them that there are a lot of youth-oriented groups he might like."  
  
"That was nice of you," you said.  
  
"He didn't need it; my dad already gave him the number and actually offered to go with him one day if he was too nervous to go by himself."  
  
"Holy shit. Good for your dad."  
  
"He actually told Trevor that he had reacted to me being gay in a terrible way, that he didn't want to...repeat that."  
  
"So that check was an apology and an acknowledgement of his mistakes and your success."  
  
"Well, like you said, sometimes money isn't money."  
  
You smiled, "Yeah, but I still miss the good old days when money was just sex."  
  
Justin, although clearly exhausted, turned and looked at you, "When we get home tonight, sex is going to be just about sex."  
  
"I don't have to pay you anymore?" you asked, relieved.  
  
"Hmm, I don't know. We'll swipe your rewards card and see if you have any freebies left."  
  
You imagined a very special rewards card sliding down the crack in his perfect little ass but instead you said, "I'm pretty sure I have a free blow job on there that may be expiring soon, so I should probably reedem that tonight." You put as much 'wishful thinking' into your voice as possible.  
  
Justin, never one to shy away from your wit, countered, "If you let that expire, then you automatically get topped. It's in the agreement you signed."  
  
Your eyebrow rose slowly and you had to force yourself not to laugh, "All right, then. Oh boy....decisions, decisions."  
  
************  
_in the sunshine of your love_  
  
In mid-December 2012, you and Justin received a formal invitation to Gabe and Daniel's wedding to be held the following February. The high-end paper Gabe choose for that invitation was nicer than anything you'd ever touched. You were a bit jealous considering your first attempt at a wedding (that never was) invitation years ago had been a bit, well, crude. In February of 2013, you and Justin flew to New York to attend the wedding in their home with Jon and Zeek serving as the official 'best men.' Both had 'dates.' Zeek with Lana, and Jon with some guy named Mark, an artisanal brewery owner that he'd had snatched up from somewhere. Amelia was the flower girl; she pushed her baby brother, Owen, down the aisle with the rings secured to the front of his stroller. Later, at the reception, she out-performed the band Daniel had hired. Rube's wedding gift got the most kudos: an etch-a-sketch portrait of Gabe and Daniel done on the spot. You and Justin quietly left New York that night on a plane bound for New Hampshire. Justin was excited because he thought the trip was a just a little vacation in honor of your two year anniversary, although when you let him know that you were staying at The Rockford again, he gave you a rather _I'm-disappointed-in-you_ look. "Oh come on, be a good sport. I've had our room preemptively de-gnomed."  
  
"All right," he conceded, "But this time, we are not staying in our room the entire time. I want to go snowboarding or skiing or something."  
  
You agreed and ordered him a stiff drink in first class, hoping it would chill him out and get him off of his game a little. Everything went like clockwork when you checked in; Dave, the hotel manager, was there once again to welcome you. Justin hung on your arm as you went over 'details' with Dave about the (fake) snowboarding lesson the two of you wanted to sign up for. As Dave was handing you actual electronic keys and telling you about all the upgrades The Rockford had undergone in the past couple of years, Justin announced that he had to pee and left your side. That gave you time to get everything squared away, including making sure that Dave could get someone to the hotel that could issue a marriage license. (Cash money worked at The Rockford the same way it worked anywhere else.)  
  
An almost-kink in your plan occurred when Justin was coming back from the bathroom. He was smiling at you and approaching rather quickly when he suddenly looked left and stopped on a dime. "What's the matter?" you asked him, but he was ignoring your question and seeking Dave out to ask, "Dave, can I come around the counter?" Dave appeared scared shitless as he nodded, letting Justin come around to his side of reception. Both you and Dave thought that Justin had somehow figured out that something was up and foiled your plan, but you were both wrong. Justin walked behind the desk and then stood in the doorway of Sarah's office, peering inside and waving over his shoulder for you, "Brian. Brian, come here. Hurry." You gave Dave a puzzled look and walked back there only to find Justin now standing in the empty office with a rather incredulous look on his face. You couldn't help but notice the backdrop of his blond confusion... _Culpability._

 

 

 

  
"Holy shit, Brian," Justin said, "Sarah bought my painting. She paid _twenty-five thousand dollars_ for my mural."  
  
Dave stood in the doorway looking perplexed as he affirmed Justin's thinking, "She said it was an art auction? A donation for a good cause."  
  
"And to think, I had our room de-gnomed," you mumbled.  
  
.....  
  
The following day, your plan was put into motion after a late breakfast /early lunch. You sent Justin to see if Dave could switch your snowboarding lesson from a group one to a private lesson, knowing that anything exclusive always appealed to Justin's sensibilities. Dave was instructed to say yes (of course) and give Justin details about the lesson starting at one p.m. You hung out with your husband-to-be until just before the lesson, feigning a Kinnetik emergency you had to untangle and promised you'd meet him in the lodge. When Justin got to the lodge, the couches were full of people also waiting for a snowboarding lesson. When only one instructor showed up, Justin performed as you knew he would, asking nicely first about the mix up and then (after having been intentionally given the run around), ended up angry at the front desk of the lodge demanding his private instructor. Finally, at about one thirty-five p.m., a very apologetic Dave came over to the lodge and personally escorted Justin to the room where his instructor would be waiting. When Justin opened the door (so beautifully flustered), you were there waiting for him instead...  
  
...down on one knee...  
  
with an open red velvet ring box holding two very slim platinum bands.  
  
Justin turned to question Dave and discovered that he was gone. He turned back around, "Brian, what---. What the hell is going on? What are you do--?"  
  
"Will you marry me, for real?" you asked.  
  
He was utterly discombobulated, "What?"  
  
You smiled, "You heard me. I want you to marry me for real. Here. Right now."  
  
"Oh my god. Was all that--?"  
  
"A rouse, yes. Will you answer me, please?"  
  
For some reason, Justin got down on the floor, too, and the two of you ended up sitting cross-legged in front of each other as he spoke more calmly than you'd anticipated; he leaned in and wrapped his hands around yours, "Are you being serious? We never even talk about this."  
  
"Listen to me. Laws are changing every day on the federal and state level. We need to do this. We need to protect ourselves--"  
  
"That's true," he agreed.  
  
"And I love you."  
  
"I love you, too," he said as he finally started to smile.  
  
"So that's a 'yes?'"  
  
"Yes. Yes, I will marry you for real."  
  
You stood up and walked to the back of the room and opened a door, "We're ready." A flannel-clad, bearded justice of the peace came in the room with a folder and a pen in his hand.  
  
"You seriously mean right this second?" Justin asked as he got up off the floor.  
  
"Yes, and he's been waiting patiently for about twenty minutes."  
  
"But nobody's here. None of our friends or my mother and look how I'm dressed."  
  
"Well, don't worry about that; you won't be dressed for long." Justin rolled his eyes at you, so you tried again, "I thought it could just be the two of us. Just like always."  
  
"Yeah," Justin conceded, "We do things a little differently, don't we? We're switching rings?"  
  
"Adding," you said, "To remind us of when we made it officially official." You motioned for the folder, "You'll need to sign this. I have your birth certificate. Do you have your wallet?"  
  
"Yes, yes," Justin said patting himself down. The appropriate identification was presented and accepted, and as the justice prepared to conduct the ceremony, Justin held your hand, giving it a tight squeeze right before he said, "I do."  
  
It was all said and done in five minutes.  
  
......  
  
On the way back to your room, Justin questioned you, "The license said it isn't valid until three days from now."  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"So we're not really officially married yet?"  
  
"No, but we're going to go to our room and fuck for three days, and then we will be."  
  
"I want to be clear that I am _not_ getting high and laying on top of a piano this time."  
  
"Please," you said, "The only thing you'll be laying on is your stomach, and neither Nate nor Sarah are even here."  
  
"And we were never going snowboarding, were we?"  
  
You turned and grinned at him, "Tragically, no."  
  
"We're going to be ordering a shitload of room service, aren't we?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
.......  
  
When you opened the door to your room, The Rockford had beat you to it. Three carts had been delivered. One stocked with champagne and various soft drinks and waters, one with every type of cheese, crackers, and meats a man could want, and one with a ton of decadent chocolates and deserts. Justin walked over to his pillow and picked up a gift bag and looked inside, "Oh my god, Brian. It's those super-expensive candied walnuts." You were walking over to sample them when you heard a funny sound and saw a piece of paper slide into your room. Justin tried to grab it while you held it over his head and read it. "What is it?" he demanded.  
  
"It's a note from our friends in New York. Congratulations and all that."  
  
"You told them and not me?"  
  
"I whispered something to Gabe when we were leaving, something about the two of us having almost the same wedding day," you admitted. "He figured it out from there."  
  
"Yep, and then he came in his pants," Justin said, grabbing the note from you. "This is sweet. Harper drew this border design; I recognize her doodling. We should at least text them," he said, pulling his phone out.  
  
"Oh, hell no," you said, taking it away from him. "Our honeymoon starts right now, and we're not leaving this room for three days so you can't change your mind."  
  
"I'm not going to change my mind!"

************

 **JUSTIN'S POV**  
_everybody knows that you love me baby  
everybody knows that you really do_  
  
The following year, 2014, it was your turn to plan a secret marriage. Both you and Brian were cursed with busy schedules around your anniversary, so you devised a plan. You picked him up at Kinnetik at the end of a Thursday, blindfolded him, and then drove him around for an hour. When you got to your destination, the parking garage at the loft, you pulled off Brian's blindfold. He became a bit flabbergasted, "What the hell? We're at the loft?"  
  
"We are."  
  
You took him up to the loft where a justice of the peace was waiting, and without much ado, you married Brian again. When he had the gall to question your proposal methods, you laughed, "You have got to be kidding me. You only propose to me when I'm in shock, completely confused or totally aggravated."  
  
"Okay, that's fair," Brian conceded, "We should probably change that, huh?"  
  
"Next year, it's your turn again. Maybe you'll try something new," you teased him, "But in the meantime, it's your wedding night, so take your pants off and get in bed."  
  
Brian cocked his eyebrow at you, "My goodness, marriage makes you a little more demanding that usual."  
  
"Yep. Pants. Off."  
  
"I find this oddly arousing," Brian claimed as walked backwards toward the bedroom while undoing his pants.  
  
......  
  
An hour or so later, you were lying against him reminiscing, "You know, Brian, falling in love with you was utter hell, but being in love with you is pretty amazing."  
  
"Do you mean that?"  
  
"Of course. I wouldn't want to serial-marry anyone else."  
  
Brian kissed you, "Me either. But this is going to mean that the honeymoon period never really ends. Did you think about that?"  
  
"Well, that's just a side effect we'll have to manage," you decided and then you turned so you were facing him, pressing your palm against his chest, "But I need to ask you something, and I really need you to be honest with me."  
  
"Duh, of course. What?"  
  
"Doing this, getting actually married every year, this is fun and our little secret, but your motives for this are in the right place, correct? ....Don't get offended, just think about it and answer me."  
  
......  
  
Brian sighed, but not in a frustrated way, "After our first one last year, I consulted an attorney to see if there was way this could hurt us, and to be honest, he said the idea is sort of half-baked."  
  
"Oh god."  
  
"No, no...like you said, don't get offended, just be honest. He basically said that the issue is so fluid right now that we could get married somewhere that then overturns their law or whatever, and I thought about that and then, honestly, I decided, 'Fuck it.'"  
  
"This is not making me feel good, Brian."  
  
"Well, here's the way I see it, fuck this fucking stupid country. I love you, and if I want to marry you every year until I croak, then I will. If I want to marry you on top of Mount Rushmore or in the middle of a coral reef or anywhere else, I'll do it--"  
  
"Because nobody was going to tell you where you can fuck, and now nobody's going to tell you--"  
  
Brian got animated, "Exactly. And this is a generational issue. People my age and older are the ones in power and the ones holding back marriage equality. Eventually, we'll all be dead--"  
  
"Brian, stop saying things that make me want to cry! I just got married! Jesus."  
  
"Okay, sorry, sorry." He hugged you, pressing your face against his chest and spoke a little more softly, "What I mean is, what we want for each other is way more important than what a bunch of old wrinkly white dudes in black robes want for us. I want you to wake up every day of your life and feel how much I love you. Nothing matters more to me than that; that's all I'm saying. Those are my motives." The room got very still for a few seconds, and then he said, "And...now I've made you cry, Christ."  
  
"You are such an ass sometimes," you said as you wiped your tears, trying in vain to stop them. "And once in a while, you could love me just a little less so I could love you a just little more, you know?"  
  
Brian laughed, "Justin, you aren't ever going to be the top in this relationship. Just accept it and move on." He was teasing you, but you twisted his nipple anyway, "Ow, fuck!"  
  
"I love you so much that I will always let you think you're on top."  
  
You muttered under your breath, _"Yeah, I already knowed that."_  
  
"And you and I, from here on out, are just going to subscribe to the ridiculous idea that all these marriages are cumulative--"  
  
Brian smiled, wiping the last of your tears away, "Okay, I like that. Like we get more married every year."  
  
"Exactly. But not like a punch card, Brian," you said, feeling like you had to clarify that, Brian being Brian and all.  
  
"Okay, no punch cards. Got it. No freebies. We're just slowly working on a PhD in matrimony or something like that."  
  
You kissed him, "Sounds good. I like that."  
  
"What are we going to do with all these marriage licenses?" Brian asked.  
  
You hadn't thought about it, "Hmm.... frame them? Maybe hang them over your desk where the painting used to be?"  
  
"Yes. Framed. I like that."  
  
"And if you plan the secret wedding, then I frame the license and vice versa. And the framing has to reflect something about that particular year's ceremony. Like, I will get the one from last year framed in some tacky-ski-lodge-woodsy way or something."  
  
"Okay. I'm down with that."  
  
"Okay, I feel better about this now. And somehow, Brian, and I don't exactly know how, but somehow...despite your worst and then best efforts... you became the best husband in the entire world."  
  
He brushed your hair off your forehead with his fingertips, "Well, far be it from me to argue with a genius, Sunshine. When you're right, you're right."  
  
  
  
_  
_

  
  
_Part 1 lyrics taken from:_ Oasis’ __Wonderwall_ , _Leonard Cohen’s _ _Everybody Knows_ , _Nanci Griffith's __Outbound Plane_ , _Don Henley’s __The End of the Innocence_ , _Billy Joel’s __Keeping the Faith_ , _Michael Jackson's __Man in the Mirror_ , _Don Henley’s __The End of the Innocence_ _ again, Elton John’s __Rocket Man_ , _Leonard Cohen’s _ _Everybody Knows_ _ again _,_ Wallflowers’ __One Headlight_ , _Leonard Cohen’s __Everybody Knows_ again _.  
__  
Lyrics for Part 2 c _ _ome from__ The Eagles _ __Take It Easy_ , __Carrie Underwood's _ __Jesus Take the Wheel_ , __Leonard Cohen’s _ __Everybody Knows_ again, and __ Miranda Lambert's _ __The House That Built Me.__ _

Part 3 lyrics taken from Nanci Griffith's _ _ __Across the Great Divide twice,____ Leonard Cohen's _ _ __Everybody Knows_ , ___Meredith Wilson's _ _ __It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas,____ Perry Como’s _ _ __Home for the Holidays,____ The Eagles _ _ __Already Gone_ , ___Macklemore & Ryan Lewis _ _ __Can't Hold Us,____ Sara Bareilles's _ _ __Brave_ , T___he Script's _ _ __Hall of Fame_ , ___and Justin Timberlake's _ _ __Sexy Back.__ _ _

Part 4 & 5 lyrics taken from The Eagles’ _ _ _ __Best of My Love_ , ____Tracy Chapman's _ _ _ __Give Me One Reason_ , ____LeeAnn Rhyme's _ _ _ __One Way Ticket_ , ____The Temptation's _ _ _ __Get Ready_ , ____Kelly Clarkson's _ _ _ __Breakaway_ , ____Passenger's _ _ _ __Let Her Go_ , ____Bob Dylan's _ _ _ __Blowing in the Wind_ , ____Jessie J's _ _ _ __Price Tag_ , ____Cream's _ _ _ __Sunshine of Your Love_ , ____and Leonard Cohen’s _ _ _ __Everybody Knows_.  
  
_Culpability was created by[](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/profile)[ **silent_seas**](http://silent-seas.livejournal.com/) many, many years ago, and I am very, very grateful to her for her artistic contributions to this story, and I apologize that it took so many years for me to make this work public.__ _ _ _

 

 


End file.
